The Sunnyray

Through such stupidity Petrified in vile mediocrity, Under the idiocy of guilt, All adult immaturity rests. Doubt ... How to perform the latency and pending project In this policy, heaped up with impotence of powers. In the act of measuring and overshadowing? From the visceral feeling started a wave of discreet agony That went through the full extent of the intestines: The feeling of guilt, Decadent. So also man holds to the idiocy of guilt. Corrupt: shows the total villainy of Humus-humans. Mortality to flow in the corpse, Vaporized in the weakness of the coarse. Revealed the disgust, poor dead! He did not understand that he was guilty. A feeling, a fine? Reaction to public figure offense: Imoral, indiscreet, stupid. Without a mind, the people cry out A more agile and less narrow response. You idiot, you fool!

The remains of August, 31-2016 (7:51 PM) (By Zenom - The Prince of the Poets) Sewage from Mauritius of Nassau! The reluctant San Francisco is already dead. I-bonfire of Santa Maria, Tea of ground vine, jagube-mariri. Leaves, flowers and buds ... She, 16 years of solitude. Gold Black-silver, ivory. Of the precious stones, none is Paraíba, neon tourmaline: I-immortal, diamond body. I-Adamantine. In that state of Smirnoff the night was over. Jade Dragons Remained And a Rococo Jedi, drunk in the Baroque. I-Yagé: You, they and tomorrow, Anxious for countless spells today, And the Wheel of Fortune at full Vayus and lungs. Hari Om Tat Purusaya! Om Namo Narayanaya! Om Namah Shivaya!

Restos mortais de agosto, 31-2016 (19:51 h.) Dinâmicas do Vazio Aparente (Por Zenom - O Príncipe dos Poetas) Esgotos de Maurício de Nassau! Já é morto o São Francisco relutante. Eu-fogueira de Santa Maria, Chá de cipó moído, jagube-mariri. Folhas, flores e brotos ... Ela, 16 anos de solidão. Ouro Preto-prata, marfim. Das pedras preciosas, nenhuma é Paraíba, turmalina-neon. Eu-corpo imortal de diamante. Eu-Adamantino. Naquele estado de Smirnoff findou-se a noite. Restaram Dragões de Jade E um Jedi Rococó, alcoolizado no Barroco.  Eu-Yagé: Você, eles e o amanhã, Ansioso hoje de incontáveis feitiços, E a Roda da Fortuna a plenos Vayus e pulmões. Hari Om Tat Purusaya! Om Namo Narayanaya! Om Namah Shivaya!

I-soon-exist, definitely, I am brave, new mind and pleasure Confused in all pain. Orgasmic relief from all tensions, All beings crying love. Peace and spirit, quietness to inhabit and to Design of people, full heart, Released even though between clenches, Making trembling the flesh of the pulsion: A lotus of the mud appear beautiful.

The wise man ... Every moment, Increasingly rare. Flashes. Never in front of mirrors. Light that desapear and rekindles, As life rebuilds. He goes on to see they who are dying.

Live the animal in man and both in time. The wind of the event howls hope. In war, peace is desirable, Inevitable. A lot of people who find the end, Who deny the unconscious And the invisible powers. Those capable of such dementia. Absence of human heat torments them. Quixote in your land, Rising from nothing to sleep. Covered with time, to cover up the light, Cover yourself with nothing, him.

I-you. From this infallible love that kills, To those who are not attentive. There is always something, a subtle whisper That endures in Victory not attained by force. Principle and path of contemplation of the perfected Masters. Greater sensitivity and subtlety: Energy, cosmic-life, Spirit naked without effort. I-spirit-naked, People without borders.

And ... I could not tell. Everything has been said, but we do not understand. Everything is in the mind, but the body does not transcend. It would not be worth thinking. Everything was thought, but we do not understand. Everything is in the mind, but the body does not transcend. I could not cry a tear. So many tears rolled, but we do not understand. In the world there are still weeping, but the body does not transcend. Of what value would it suit me, selfish civilization? Everything is dead, but we do not understand, Of all that is dead, that The body does not transcend. I do not know how to love ... I could not philosophize. For sure we know nothing. We do not love and do not understand. All that is known is that the body does not transcend. I never knew how to love ... Would i believe these rare people, who say they love me? So many have loved each other, but the people does not understand. All this love of the world does not serve me, because the body does no

Notes from me If my heart sore It does not show you how much I suffer your absence, It's because you do not look at me with affection, You ignore my scanty appearance. In the exact scores of your melodies, The few notes of me are pauses. In discouragement my day lives intensely, Seeing you leave me without causes. For no apparent or relevant reason, Warm face and naked forms are absent. I've never been a careless man. Before beauty and elegance, both of you. If my soul languish in your bosom, Be strong, but do not try to beget me in your fear.

It was the stewardship Poetry came, my last and firm refuge. The night I was silent, I suffered. Dust, mold I saw myself in rave, Moving, withering petals, A book that read. It was stewardship. Oh pain, absurd winter! When the rare reality shone, From the top of the hill, I saw the world And all the insanity that went bankrupt. Nostalgia, my last pride Against echoes of a frozen past. My life is gone, as the life that is in everything, Led to a beautiful greenish grass. If, sometimes in this life, I get in the way, It's because of the injustice of work.

Tailor of souls I feel this dubious emotion As I put the verses together and I go Sewing. The poet's torn soul, Feeling of ecstasy and regret Cast at one time, In the torn soul of the poet. Without coveting any future fame and A Focus on the present tremendous luck, The Good poetry of living and dead poets, Saturated suction balm. The poet's torn soul, Feeding fertilizer The indestructible seed of the myth. Amazing power, verses Evoked from chaos: The poet's torn soul. Fame and success without vanities, Last potion of magic, Lovely angel, newcomer The poet's torn soul. Tailor of this enormous subtlety. I love, lily, sweet page and edible verse. The poet's torn soul.

Cause Without Cause / Causes In Cause / Cause Cause! Down the slope, Eternal slope, The river follows the sea. Without ridge nor bord, Down the old slope. Flew... Dead eyes for cause without cause. Runaway in blackness, I-ink-red write in blood. My pen flew Over the slope, Without flashlight and without lamp. The old graves Of cause without cause, They ran in the cold, River waters run to the sea By old roads of countless tears Races on the face, Downhill, slopes. The cause of everything It is even without cause, No future time or Past to withhold. Powerful portents, streams, Waterfalls. Eternal slope on the way to the sea, Sighing foreshadowing, Perennial resumed. Black dead eyes Down the slope.

O amor ao poder não supera o poder do amor; o argumento da força não supera a força do argumento; o muito fazer jamais supera o ser. 對權力的愛並沒有克服愛的力量; 武力的論證並沒有克服論證的力量; 這麼多的事情永遠不會超越存在。 The love of power does not overcome the power of love; the argument of force does not overcome the force of argument; so much doing never surpasses being.