ON THE INCESSANT FIGHT SO THAT THE CHRISTIAN SOCIALISM IS THE THIRD ROAD. In the man's divine and difficult love for the man, of the pardon to the offenses and offenses, of the meekness when facing the unrestricted wild animal. In that daily clamor for the justice, dimmed and been dazzling by the powerful ones, dealers and criminals. Our fight should never rest, nor it can, therefore it is our air, our direction and plumb line, our attitude before the life, it can never be contained, nor she can wait; she is with combative and active coherence; because she will translate through where will go the dawn. In our idols and immolated heroes and strangled by the beasts wild animal of the past, of the present and that they will come; for the uncompromising love to the man, we should get ready for the battle. For my children, in whose rails there will be more shine, more I hit upon, better destiny... Boys that grow with the wait of the following day, nothing else than the pardon for our mistakes and for the sore spots that we tried to mitigate. It hurts the light of the pain to the eyes that insist on not seeing, but soon it passes, the life resumes and the hand mistreats the ones that again doesn't have feet, nor free legs; bundles that are in the eternal current of the injustice. The sacrifice of thousands of children in the ghettos and slums, they only pass and they don't reach; the men's pain is the motto of the “charities” on Sundays, in the fake prayers of who he doesn't know and, worse, he fears the putrid smell of the infested alleys of the unburied corpses of the numbers of the statistics, of the physical pain and of the curse of the flagellate. I don't say that they are vultures, not even that they are, they only represent the chance, the unintentionally, the nothing to see and, if he/she sees, nothing to do, to pass diagonally, through the bridge that they create on the kill-alive ones. The sea of daily martyrs, in the Northeastern and mining starving fields, in the valleys of several Jequitinhonhas, in the rural ones and interiors, nothing acts except a band glance, over everything, unattainable. Is other fate reasonable? Is other theme possible? When the saga of the without blood, anemic, devoured inside and on the outside for the inconsequent and voracious parasites, it travels the streets, the windows close, the body trembles and the heart fears, the old ones and boys shake well dresses, the dogs bark and they bite, they start and they devour that meat in decomposition in the middle of the life. We should struggle for the disable persons and destitute, apathetic, in the symphony of the planet earth, of the earth brasilis, of the navel human, eternal string that in the record to the Earth, generous mother, ingrate and aggressive children, ambitious children, even if aware, inconsequent in the pleasure devouring, devastating, destructor of everything. Mute person is not, I flood myself of prides, my threads light, I ascend Mars, to São Jorge, to Ogum, in the daily fight, with the meekness of a Betinho, with Irmã Dulce's affection, but also with the fury of a Guevara, sticks and caresses at the mercy of my battle. We go, siblings, let us don't drop in the forgetfulness, the roof of zinc, the thatch hut, the foot bug and the ringworms of the souls. We go in heading for the SOCIALISM, our song and rite, our blessed dream, our future and vision. Our encouragement and food, our direction and cement, our consecration. Bleeding the hands, if I need, in a concise action and strongly Christian. Our ground and roof, stairway and comet, our gift promise, of life, in the blessed prophecy, of that sea now, sea of rotten injustices, with our beginning, without stumble, without fears, to turn an interior; and the interior of the poverty, of the hunger that reigns, with our fight, our battle, in a moment of glory, to turn a wonderful love sea, of praise to the life, in the multiplication of the breads, in the relived blood, shared, in a tender cadence, of mercy and justice, of charity without greed, of the man they will go of the man. We won't lose that moment, where the beginning of all this if it turns our light. Thank you Jesus, for having given me those days, where I glimpse happiness to the suffered people, where the contained scream, it can become a love song and faith. Your Gospel, for old, for boy, miserable poor advantages, advantages without hope, advantages that you/they didn't have roof, food or affection; for who, of concrete, the life only gave the tired and barefoot feet, the callous and empty hands; snatching and tearing the currents. In the pleasant smell of the mouth that eats, of the before demented, that now foresee the end of that highway that, if one day not in he fell through, more and more he translates happiness. I have with me, the screams of the death, the squalid children and invalidated by the pulled down cordilleras, flowers trips, convicts to the anything. In the hospitals and mortuaries, I still have vivid that scream, the afflicted despair of the hunger. If there are among us, some dignity, and I believe that that is our largest legacy, we cannot NEVER REST OF THAT BATTLE. SHE IS THE OXYGEN THAT CIRCULATES FOR OUR BLOOD VESSELS. IT IS WHAT ALLOWS SAY OURSELVES THAT WE ARE CAPABLE OF CONSIDER OURSELVES, REALLY MEN. Finally, without delays, I put my eyes in the spring, and in her mirror the reflex of the dreams, tomorrow, the blessed fruits of the SOCIALISM. That God illuminates us and give us forces for the FIGHT.