The early morning assault on the imagination Maputo. The wind stands still at the gates of his gray ash beach while lonely dogs prepare to go to sleep unmanned what they come over. Then the city, during the few minutes that the light is denouncing everything for the first time, boiling between the roar of thousands of people who do not know where to go. Then, after 30 minutes where time does not fits in the clocks, everything returns for calm. Eso I like of Maputo, his awakening.
What is with shyness, without fearlessness, as giving you time to introduce yourself in the farewell
Maputo es fun, sympathetic, cheerful. What is with shyness, without fearlessness, as giving you time to introduce yourself in the farewell. In its bars there are musicians who imagine customers; in its streets is sees the children dance low the shadows of mangoes; in their semaphores there someone you offers something that always need the day after and that tomorrow, that neither need, te lo will return to offer; in its parks the enamored shying away from their shadows without you reach understand if judged who were too close or too far. Everything happens in a constant smile that offends no other reasonable sadness.
Maputo invents. Inventa cadres who roam the streets. What recently wrote: "How can you not love a place that when you raise your head dining and see it move a picture?”. Then, when you sharpen the view that after the paint look no eyes, and hands that do not cover the box, and a few hours in which no one goes home with a frame on the shoulders. But they are there. Always. Offering brightly colored fabrics, sensitive drawings inhabit their consciences. They are your art influences independence, when this country decided to fight for their freedom wood carving in his spare coffee and trench. His sculptures are brilliant, his writings heartbreaking, his haughty cultural proposal. Do not imitate anyone but themselves.
Do not imitate anyone but themselves
I like naps Maputo. Maputo is full of men sitting at the gates of the stately homes, with her darned veteran suits rolled up to his elbows, sleeping in their working hours. Sleeps at all hours blowing in respect of a city that does not bother them. They do it in impossible positions. Breaking physics. Then, after dark, collect their chairs and watch the houses, since in, sound asleep next to a radio sounding rusty at will. In listening to the radio Maputo. I like also to Maputo. I like the sound of this city.
Maputo is abundant in their needs, in their leftovers. Green flowing everywhere among musty corridors of asphalt covered by a veil of concrete that melts from above. Thence, when you climb up to the throat of the city, currency of crows flying between branches, antennas and cables. The sea is far, much, about fifty yards. At the bottom, closer, floating islands made of wood.
I also like that of Maputo, that taught me to trust without looking into your eyes
I also like his pride Maputo. No complex in their driveway cracks, or their drains where garbage is running the air. It has always a gesture capable, as if the world of others he was oblivious and useless by improper. In Maputo, the need is coal eyes makeup. Their answers are sometimes dry, almost sharp, teaching that many words which are built are soliloquies. Maputo speak slowly, sensible, honest, albeit without my eyes. I also like that of Maputo, that taught me to trust without looking into your eyes.
