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Saint Clare, patron saint of television.
May the bright-eyed boy be able to see everything.
Understanding the correct signal is important when near the hidden area.
Speaking correctly of this near and distant open port
But to be silent, to know how to launch oneself into a clear moment.
Saint Clare, patron saint of television.
May television not be an internal, desolate hell.
One sees in excess the eternal almost nothing, almost nothing.
That television is not always watched.
Like the condemned shop window, the sinister window
But taken for what it is, as poetry.
When evening falls, where is my father?
He made me and created me.
No one will know what color hurts me.
And so it was, and here it stayed.
Santa Clara
Knowing when to be silent, knowing how to guide prayer.
May the video be the serpent from another Eden.
Because falling is a victory.
And the myriad images of suicide.
May the video be the lake where Narcissus is a God.
Who will also know how to resurrect
May the world be like that Ialorixá.
The priestess who recognizes the orisha in the announcement.
Sing to the orixá you see in the advertisement.
No cowboy, no samurai, no naked boy, no naked girl
In the animal, in the color, in the stone, see it in the moon, see it in the moon
So many levels of signals that it reads and follows entirely.
Clear moon, trail, destiny
Shine, teach me to see you.
Moon, moon, remain within me.
Go out, no ar, on TV
Saint Francis
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