Best Denon Receiver 2009

I spit as an offense, and me, I learned to praise ... Your mother ... Is my mother what? I strained veins like guitar strings, like when someone puts his hand just like that, without knowing tocar.Y tremble, vibrate, sound a death-calm-but then intimate momentum late in an echo of vengeance. So I tuned the veins to the echo of his words.
Your mother ... Is my mother what? Your mother was India ... India itself, but of pure race, everyone can see it in writing takes on the taut vellum clear oval of her face, against a background characters Inca gold and silver. A string of baubles, dangling on his chest and sings, like a nest of sparrows breathing scare you. Two hoop earrings hang from her ears with grace, as if they were marking ansiasde little by little to a better day never come to the break of dawn. To top it off, two braids her chest and back cover, as if the Gods Indians had signed the minutes. India

my mother Very india! and very long are the skirts that only vientoo hand levantan.Tu my father mother ... Is my mother what? served in India at home and was all like a beast of burden. To all, yes, I admit, but not for the rabble of your father a thousand times girl wanted to squeeze it and own it when he was a married woman! For no, I swear, I swear to tata Santa Maria del Iquique Diosy my virgin of the mountain. That if she was a snowflake, my mother did not ask anything. Skin on your body, no more huellaque those of shock, my father gives him drunk. My father, no! my tata .. Drunk and everything I wanted, passionately excited. Because my father drunk most largest and most bitter, was not alcohol, weeping in the mill the cane. But a bloody juice refining thousand tears. Drunk, to forget. Drunk with anger and rage. Drunk and well ... drunk without knowing the outraged.

Mom, Mom, as a shrine kiss the traces that are in your face, they are like a hundred years compassion made you my father. With the wrath of his manliness manly trampled on a bloody mill harmful injustice. And do not cry Mom, God no longer has to kill the soul will defend you, even with this Gadu, who aspires to be scaffolding and house of a better world. If not, that our maize stalks become spears. So

so. Have given me the opportunity of these words, go, go your way, your pride of race and the world of your prejudices and hump on the back. Life has been easy and so; unappreciated, I hope that when you have problems (and are close to) know to overcome life with courage and grace, and fear that your children are parasites of tomorrow, and if you have braids, was hanged them not to suffer through it, to live life, we must endure it and love it, Go, Go your way, but measure your words! an offense You wanted me and my, I learned to praise me.


My mother is India, India India.




Fernando Ocampo Celis Angel