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Migrants stories: who is the real clandestine?

Stories and News No. 984

About 2000 people from various indigenous groups gathered in the Brazilian capital to seek respect for their land, staging a protest that has led to clashes with the police in front of the Congress, considered to favor the rich corporations.

Once upon a time there was a land.
The land where we were born.
Where we lived.
Where we loved and hated.

Where we built as many lives and written stories.
Our stories, indeed, that’s an unquestionably truth, I am not talking at all about those postcards and magniloquent tales that strictly rained from above.
There were once, them.
The real heirs of colours and gifts, original sounds and shapes survived to legalized pollution.
The forgotten inhabitants, the invisible people, the unwanted persons of all time.
Embarrassing beings of the past for tomorrow's humanity as the most dangerous creatures for the framing’s thief, the lynching juggler to serve the rich of every era, capable of turning words from innocent to cursed.
Indigenous doesn’t mean uncivil, you know?
Aborigine has precedence over citizen, would you ever say that?
Indio is a much more far-sighted, balanced and aware word than hired with contract for an indefinite period by the compulsory consumers society.
It's time to stop the real invaders.
We are right, because we are the returning dead.
The human wavers from the butterfly effect of an unmistakable extermination.
The children of a too lurking genocide to be hidden beneath carpets made by small and innocent hands, but daily sold and bought by bulimic clients from easy palates and awareness.
Get out of our land, migrants with lazy memory.
You’re the gatekeepers trampling on hopes and destinies by profession, and then you’ll try to reject others, as if time did not exist.
As the world was not the world, and the rules of the peaceful existence could be overcome by personal egoisms and a pervading addiction to idiocy.
Enough with checks and transactions, investitures and investments, percentages and capital gains.
Leave your claws and fangs out of our land.
Go out, clandestines of the nature.
You, like all of us, have received the residence permit from the fate, but you have misguided it as the dominion over the others.
You are the strangers among the living species.
You are the others, not us.
Because we've been here since the beginning of time.
Because we are this land.
So, there was once the sense of the story.
What's really at stake.
The path that divides us, the water that crosses, the sun that accompanies us all to the inevitable end.
The land, respect and protect the land, and you will see that there will never be war.
Between you and us.

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