We are "waiting for the times, from which our words will move beyond those vague ideas, to line us in channels of disbelief, fears and lies, for not everyone knows use as ourselves."

In these days of the new illumination, the stars become leafy in the eyes of the most attentive Freemasons, and our ways of being, being, and remaining in the face of universalizing themes in diametrical views are now themselves the proclamation.

Just below the celestial vault, guiding us on the roads of discovery, once again make up each of the posts in the room, chess and from there, we can see, the night's guide with its ninety knots is not lonely and in gleaming white and bold black, the images of the will of traditional wills, on the hikers' edges also spring free.

In each search, in the face of the progressive face of the conscious, always at five o'clock in the morning of the new day, the memory bell, without fear, our bouncing day and with each living chime, in an everlasting flickering light of the just path, common images and similarities, aprons carry secrets kept for millennia.

At the ear, after the password confirmed to enter the tabernacle, into our corporeal, branched forehead, it whispers to us that the ladder climbs flattering us into believing, even if we are on the far sides of our immense planet Earth, the knots of connections with all the strength one by one in the burning salt of the valley the eyes will remember flattering. Under the same rule, we are!

We no longer have easy access to the moonlight, on the streets we keep trying to meet for signs, we try to help each other and there, in the paths of new free brothers, we stay! There is a waiting for the times, from which our words will move beyond those vague ideas, to line is in channels of disbelief, fears and lies, because not everyone knows us as ourselves.

Today, we no longer have easy access to the citadel built on the desires of our equals, not even all other suns, to demonstrate the urgent need for innovative actions to teach the neophyte to choose the best option for our society. And for the other laity.

Lay people, free men, neophytes, let us wait for the clear night awaited to spout from our temples at this time, another new essence, rising to the greater good and progress, even if it is crystalline only in the eyes of all, few.

Per hour! In the four corners of the world, the compasses and rulers turn to the hive to unite us by the flaming rays make use of the dreamy pitch, jump early.

<Short Story>

Ground-Air-Ground Admiral: Eric Costa e Silva.

Welcome to my lyrics, all, when finding your reading time is a link to unify worlds in a latent gleam of stories panned in the daily life of this his preacher and poet.

In this chronicle you will prowl around every corner of the room in the footsteps of lost poetic prose and under the mantle of “bites”. I invite you to pull out the seat and let the shields of the distances be disarmed and the invisible wand of the mouth close to the prosiest approach.

Sit down! Put on the boots of literary paths, our meeting will always be, an act of belonging to the tribe who likes, reads and who knows obstinately, does or someday, will do literature.

From this space I hope your latent desire to walk in the intricacies of souls emerging from fields of the individual sphere. In it, you will be able to run your reading eyes on the wall lenses, a boat and the heaps of things, whose time allows departure and, at the same time, encounter of shapes, forged, furnace, forced to allow.

Walls and boats, as well as this jumble of things, such as, the vastness of the choices are made by the collectively and the poet. I bet that it goes beyond labels and the poetry flows from the encounter of Ester and Lucius along with the arrangements to send us the clothes of conceiving the shores of this sea to place on our shoulders the answer of what poetry and prose… I will not, to separate!

Lucius, the old man, runs his hands through Ester's hair and lets us know, “poetry and the inspiring old people are made a picture on the wall! When we look at it, it makes us feel the art and, sends us to a world of senses to make us transmute and become, to connote the propensity to have as part of the poetic prose, poetry, the poet and the world to be linked who reads and writes the forged, formed, strong formulations of literature ”.

Pike, a wall is metric, volume, cement, sand, paint, hardware and even with such rigidity. She made the boat in the open sea a dream, as she is part of what the locals call them home, Ester says.

In the poetic notebooks Lucius portrays free poetry, made the home of poets without stanzas and, in the lobby of letters, in the memorial pictures, poetry, they do not have a page on which to write. Even so, many of them make them their sources of life and of socializing and even a cure for ills of the body and soul.

Let us leave the prose, poetry limpid, in the poet's magic we have the pleasure of the poet, portraying the aegis of the charm to be poised. It is worth mentioning, the charm can be beautiful, romantic, conceptual, abstract, as well as it can reveal sadness and social consternation, however, everything will be the result of the observable to take your day, the bite of your computer intervenes.

Esther tends to see literary notes in a way that leads us to a parable, where at sea, ninety poetized souls are on the ship serving their destinations and the search for ports to take root.

As Lucius sees each one of them, they are teaching chapters of secular orders, their paths of hidden images, such as, the faces of the past of the present as well as the two solid bases to follow in righteousness, teach the distinguishing teachings of life like the waves and the surf spots.

Having life in prose, poetry and, literature, made a boat and the waves as our relational passage through other lives, even, beyond our corpse being just another tangle of memories. At one time or another in time, he proposes to us to know the point where the truculence of the waters exposes us to the final point, Esther makes clear by distancing her days in other clicks through the pictures of Lucius' eyes.

She, aware of these tortuous paths, as well as poetry, can decide under the times and cycles of each navigator, not leaving poetry, love, or new hypotheses for a new beginning… Drown in the tide of sameness or even hit the shallow waters of the lack of only, the act of dialogue.

Poetry, a feminine noun to describe temples of the art of composing or writing verses, from which harmonious associations of words, rhythms and images perhaps in this turbulent sea or in the pictures on the walls and the distant return after long strides of leafing through the lights of the lighthouse, ready to avoid our social death on the stones of the acanthus of a text, this narrator shouts again, bites.

This poetics and poet, the bites, you, Lucius and Ester, put on these paths, reading shines in the act. Catharsis or disillusionment of the beginning of the greatness of reason and emotion, an angular metric put on all human and capital work.

Each one in its heap, useful, remembered or forgotten are the ones of the necessary social construction. So, read ... Add and poetic your boat, paint your wall or just ... Read and build Peace!

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#fiction