Dona Sebastião’s Legitimate Pain – Lucilio Manjate

Joseph Matthew. It's a tarred street, like most streets in the capital. It has white, brown and yellow villas. All faded. And a three-story building also faded and scarce of residents, like an abandoned, lonely monster. Maybe because there's only old people in the building and old people rarely lurk through the old verandas. When they do, it is always at night, as if they spy on the men of this time and this land. And soon, sad, they shake their heads and return to their homes. When the day dawns, the houses become pale and dark, and older, after all, there are cracks open on the walls drawing secular climbers. But this scenario contrasts with the wizard of students who, from time to time, hylare, burst into the street at stupendous, frantic steps like formi-gas, with the books in the lap or the bags on the back. When the sun lies down, the street has a yellow light. On Fridays, the yellow light illuminates the men sitting on the asphalt and on the sidewalk. On the road, old questions are discussed. On the sidewalk, men laugh, eat, drink, while on the rooftops cats meow a lunar serenade and in the garbage cans dogs bark fear of unusual uproar. To the north, Rua José Mateus crosses with Rua dos Lusíadas, and to the south with Avenida Martires da Machava. From north to south, the left bank is a tent hole. On the right bank there are kiosks and two garbage containers. The tents are from another time, since the last vicenium of the 20th century, when the capital opened to the market. From that time, I have Saturday afternoon walks. We were walking.
The museum tents.