Voices of the Sahara – Voices of the Living Africa
And with exhausted arms, raised to the celestial ceiling, you remember the songs of your old ancestors. They are voices from Africa! Pure white voices of deep Africa! Lost voices that cry out to the world their intense agony. Strange voices are heard in the distance … They are the voices of the Sahara, of living Africa, which express their eternal joy melodious. Desert of the Sahara, paradisiacal mirage impregnated in blush and oblivion. Old guitars sound to the chord of your eternal silence asleep. Africa is alive in your soul, and it attracts deep feelings, with the music that composes your old guitar, to oblivion. Thousands of African steel locks bind you to the heart of your beloved. You pull the silver key, with contained passion, to the springs of slightly lost desire. It is an altruistic bridge towards imaginary worlds, towards lands without nostalgia, replete with your magic. Worlds devoid of falsehoods, torn vanities and contained passions. Rencores that move away from this altruistic bridge, looking for certain illusions. You would like to be able to flee from the island that clings to your weakest senses. You would like to escape from that glass hyaline cage, smoked glass for its most perfidious selfishness. You wish you could silence the roars of the ferocious lions, supreme guardians of the desert. You would like to be able to mute your lips, your bloody mouths, with your living tears of silver water. Broken tears slide down your cheeks slightly rosy. The contained anger goes out of control, it is unmarked. Can not bear this misery, this innate loss. That fatuous light, that luminary, that forbidden light that blinds your eyes full of mountain waterfalls.
Earthly paradises you seek, in just a moment; but you find hellish abysses, full of rocky cliffs. Rocky and stony, on the edge of your distant horizon. Distance and wisdom are approaching your horizon, and your most ardent golden shield is broken, with the sun rising. Boil your heart, distressed and frightened, it boils over a thousand degrees, despite the cold of the dawn of your desolate winter. Desolate and crestfallen, you try to swim in the seas of eternal oblivion, in the seas of silence asleep. Silence asleep, warm shelter of the desert of your soul. Soul wounded, badly wounded and torn, flying over the dunes of the silent desert of the Sahara. Indomitable winds of Africa alive, in your soul. Your soul and my soul dance a magical dance, at dawn, with the cold dew of the dawn…
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