#Branca di Neve | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deepintoforestwego · 5 years ago

Text

Is there anything behind my face?

She is born knowing three things.

First is that her skin is as white as snow, her lips as red as blood, her hair as black as ebony.

Second is that seven times seven men had died so that she should live.

Third is, she shouldn't exist.

( Harsh thing for child to know, much less from moment of her birth. And harsher yet, she is right.

Were we willing to waste time in such way, we could debate about morality, about whether sins of parents transfer to children, about personal responsibility and knowledge men shouldn't wield, about whether you can blame her for what her beauty drives men to anymore then you can blame fire for burning those who get close- but that isn't kind of right we are talking about here.

It is a simple truth, written in bones of world, in lifeblood of universe, in skin of night and face of day- the snow shouldn't become person, because it is impossible.

But magic never cared about such things.)

She has feared her mother from very start, you see, and perhaps that is where trouble started, or mayhaps that saved her life. She knew she shouldn't be, you see, but very little else, as she was still just a newborn, and had never seen human before, though parts of her belonged to them, of course.

And queen may have not slept in while, and was rather cold and hungry and scared, and quite dainty woman to be honest, but she had this way of holding herself that made people defer to her, and she was all wrapped up in ermine and gold velvet and pearls, and she oozed magic like an old fish oozed stench, and child could see bargain wrapping up around two of them, and well she knew nothing of sorcery and it's limitations, so she must be forgiven for assuming this woman was deity who created her.

(Like I said, it was bad idea all from the start.)

'' My goddess. You who made me.'' Said the girl, for her mother could be clever and careful when she put her mind to it, and had requested for girl to have knowledge befitting her age and station, because everything else would have been rather awkward for her, and more importantly bad for her mother's plans.

''Not exactly, my dear. I am a human, I am afraid.'' The queen answered, after some consideration, because she did like being called goddess, even though she associated it more with her young lovers and her poor mother, but it would be quite strange for princess to go around talking like that, and even queen, as hungry for flattery as she was, was made uncomfortable by thought of girl meant to be her daughter worshipping her.

''My mistress. You who own me.'' Girl stated, slowly, drawing out words, her throat feeling quite funny, speaking for first time, as languages and social norms and concepts and table manners filled her head as flood fills empty house, for girl had no memories and experiences to trouble incoming information.

''Well! That was nicely put, though accent could use some work, but not befitting somebody of your station. Try again, dear.'' Said the queen, as her face settled down in an expression more befitting on a cat who just snatched a canary, and closed her eyes, her eyelids fluttering as she imagined her servants speaking in that delightfully obedient tone, so sure of their place, below her, defined by her.

‘My mother. You who gave me life.’‘ She says, still kneeling, and years later she will forget, or try to, bury it down, of how the queen's s smile grew when she heard those words, how she sat down and embraced still kneeling girl, and flinched when her warm hands touched cold, hard skin. It bruised her arms a bit, as if she had tried to hug a statue left out too long in winter's winds.

''Yes, my dear.'' Queen said, clutching her dark hair in her fingers, embracing her so hard that she almost had trouble breathing, and breathed in her daughter's smell, harsh and sweet aroma of pitch, the comforting freshness of newly fallen snow, the sharp smell of iron and salt.

The princess, who still didn't know what perfumes were, smelled her mother, the scent of flowers and herbs permeating her clothing, and underneath it something gross and hot (she had not yet known what sweat and soft human skin were like) and wondered why they were so different, and decided that didn't matter.

They arrive to place that girl nameless supposes is to be her home in quarter of hour, faster than the queen had ever journeyed before, for magic is ever fed by passion and from the heart, and queen had been almost drunk on pride of her success, joy from what would that mean for her, from terror and euphoria girl's beauty awoke in her, and as she hadn't slept and eaten in some time, and had almost died, her emotions running high and mad, so it wouldn't be hard for her to jump over to another country.

''This is my castle.'' The mother tells her, showing her wooden ring fortress, as they stand before wooden doors of main hall, and great noise is coming from it. Were somebody to watch, they would probably think girl emotionless, the hollow heartless thing, for she shows neither fear nor wonder (well, if she wasn't so beautiful, that is, and they were able to focus on something else other than it). But truth is, she is still far too young to know about wealth and royal power, and has seen nothing but blizzard and woman she believes to be greatest sorceress in world. There is nothing yet ingrained in her to respond.

''Inside is your father, the king.'' Now this word sparks something in her, for the queen has judged it the knowledge very important, that she must learn as soon as possible. The girl knows now, that king is the most important man in world, and that if she is to be good she will be his heir and continue to make her mother proud and powerful.

She isn't sure she wants to be powerful. But mother is, and mother wants more, and mother made her so that is probably good.

She also knows what a father is. A male parent, who names you, one whom you have to respect, obey, love... but not as much as mother.

Doors open, and noise hurts but she doesn't yet know how to react. She follows mother's lead, and steps inside.

And rest of world stops for everybody else.

***

''My weregild.'' The mother coos, almost mews as she watches seven little bodies swing on rope, their faces that awful, strange purple people call blue for some reason though it's more of grey and lilac with pinch of black and scarlet, and smile doesn't leave her face, though at one point it grows stale and uncertain.

The princess learns what brothers are only later, when she has learnt enough to recognize guilt for what it is.

She doesn't yet have name for feelings that possess her, the way her stomach churns and turns at sight of those small, rotting bodies (she has never learnt what death was, it had been built in her from before she was an inkling of thought), swaying on wind as ravens come to feast.

Were she just a spell- child, body built and operated by magic, she would have felt nothing. She would have danced and spoke as her maker demanded. Were she a changeling, or just a creature snow and blood and ebony in truth, she would have looked with curiosity, or apathy, and noted how it was unjust, and how petty and strange humans are. And were she truly her mother's daughter, she would have said it was just, for as she had no childhood, so they should be denied to grow old.

But she was neither of those, so she learnt regret.

***

She doesn't like to think about her name. Much less discuss it. If you try to ask her about it, today, well good luck. Hope you will make it out with some teeth intact at least.

She has one name, and hundreds. It is same name, but always so different, like light reflecting off from one snowflake, viewed from different angles. Run away to so many countries, run for so long, and of course it is changed so many times, of course it is translated when she has such dumb name. She hates the original too, but she hates variations even more- what right do they have to change her name, to change anything about her and her damned story? And change it they do, oh yes, cutting off parts and rearranging them, calling her Snowdrop and Snow White and Snežana and Blanche-Neige and Branca de Neve and Albanix and Sneewittchen and Schneewittchen and she can't number them all, snow and whiteness everywhere...

She is well aware that her name is literal and obvious and dumb, and if you ever point it out it won't go well for you. Only once did one person ( a beautiful princess who belongs to death and dreams like her, and almost as much to flowers and briars as she belongs to snow and blood, those daughters of woods and curses), with accidental addition of too much drink, get her to talk about that, and this is what she said.

''Don't know who called me that first. I think it came from some poor bard who burst in songs about me until he died from lack of food and sleep. Detracted from glorifying me, see. Or wait, not a bard, bard's apprentice, about twelve. Might have had some Sight within him. Or it was my father, doesn't matter.

People picked it up because it was only fitting name, see. I couldn't be saddled with normal name, I was above it- and anybody else with that name would forever think of me, and it would never feel right for them. Except that now in some countries they do use my name, or version of it as a normal name so what waste of time, right?

Anyway point is they wanted to call me by something that could properly describe me and Beautiful was far too tacky and Ebony Black weird and Blood Red is just creepy so, here we are! Cheers!

The bitch never called me anything. Just my princess, my dear, my daughter. My, my, my. Always the same shit.'' And of course, this is the lie, though one she prefers to believe.

Truth is, she forgot it. She forgot all names, and only roles remained.

***

The queen did one true kindness to her, because anything else would have been incredibly harmful for her goals, and because she wasn't wholly bereft of morals and reason, and still it hurt.

She had made it, when she cast her spell, when she screamed her wish in reality, when she bargained, that her daughter would have mind befitting her seeming age. Because stupid daughter was useless, and better no child than one that had that kind of problems (queen was biggest supporter of leaving people who were anything less than perfect, or at least acceptable, to die in woods, whether they were loving father gone senile or caring brother whose arm had to be amputated), and because she hated associating with such people- and in her mind, whoever had limping leg or trembling hands, or who had problems with reading or remembering faces was worse than animal, for animals could be useful, and toothless dogs were to be put down.

The girl had barely settled in her new form, though she walked with grace unparalleled and strode with pride and strength only queen herself could outshine, when she began changing and growing. She didn't know how to feel about that, as she wasn't normal girl, and already half way past through puberty, and nobody would ever tease her, or think her anything less but most beautiful creature they had ever seen.

(Creature. A step up from thing.)

Still, it felt strange, and uncomfortable, and very wicked to have her change and grow before she had truly had chance to enjoy her girlhood. The queen, who was very clever, and knew how to nurse man from brink of death as well as she knew how to craft a drink to paralyze an ox for six hours, explained her how everything about her body worked, and how those changes were completely natural, and how she would soon grow taller and how her face would get slimmer and more mature. In fact, she was growing up at same pace as most girls did, and that delighted queen greatly, for woman grown was an enemy, and eternally young girl was useless, and not to mention a great annoyance.

(That was part of why she waited so long, until she was ready to cast her spell. It took time to find information, and to convince everybody she had lost her reason, but she wanted to put it off as far as possible, because raising child was such dull and taxing affair, and she really didn't need additional source of wrinkles.)

The princess had never woken up her parents and nurses in middle of night with her incessant crying. She had never fallen and scraped her knee and broken in hysterics. She had never climbed tree. She had never played ball. She had never been carried in her father's arms. She had never been told bedtime stories. She had never learned to read, or been tutored in counting. Her mother had never explained to her how to comb her hair. She had never had it explained to her how children are born, nor what marriage was. She had never muddied her dress. She had never played with kittens.

(She had never needed to have dying explained to her.)

She wasn't naive (spell-girls built by men often were, inexperience and weakness and dependence of child in an adult body, but her mother had grander, more arrogant fantasies, though no less sick), she wasn't stupid, she wasn't lost. She had grown, and adapted to her world, and soon all things she missed, all knowledge and experience she wasn't born with, granted by magic, became part of her.

But lacuna where her childhood should have been remained, raw and gaping, as if somebody had pulled out all her teeth before she had chance to bite a crust of bread.

***

She learns at her mother's knee.

She learns from her father, of course, because she is made the heir, and she learns history and geography and riding and politics and swordfighting and wielding axe, but it doesn't matter that much. Her father is a pale figure in her life, and ordinary man trembling before her, dead when she is three, and her mother walks through world as if she is above it, and hemlock and lily-of-the-valley grow behind her.

There was much to learn at the queen's feet, even things no child should learn, even things queen never intended to teach her. Part of it was that such were times- in those days castles were small and wooden, and courts less formal and complicated, and queens themselves worked, mending clothes and pulling their weight. It could have lessened them, made them normal women in eyes of their subjects, but her mother knew how to wrap dignity and mystery around herself. She knew how to make people kneel.

Her mother taught her domestic arts, of course. She was good, dutiful wife, and more over not sort of woman who shrank away from her duty and hard work. But more important, she taught her daughter, though girl could never be sure whether by accident or intent, how to look beautiful when doing it, how to look powerful as she spun thread, exalted as she made her own bed. When queen mended her husband's head, he lowered his head and reverently expressed his gratitude.

She taught her spellcraft, by observance at least. It was power that queen couldn't truly have shared with her even if she wanted (and she would have rather sheared her own hair than given up one of her secrets). Her mother was skilled, learned mage, if not particularly powerful by talent alone. She drew her power from gems, herbs, potions, from rings that turned you invisible, cloaks that allowed you to fly, seven mile boots.

Snow White had leanings of witch, it seemed. Hers was power of rituals and motions, of rites and ceremonies, of dances under harvest moon that changed fate of kings, of hair ribbons cut by seven grandmothers over mountain river on which mill was built to make friendship sour... or she would have, had she ever been taught. But she had been made heir, and there was much to learn, and being witch or priestess wouldn't have been good for her (pity, she would have made a good völva, she was pretty sure). She did pick up few things, though, but it was unavoidable.

Blood and mirrors, all she learnt.

***

She wondered what it was that made her beautiful.

Her skin? Her skin, so white that it blinded, white as snow that covered ground swiftly after the last harvests, like snow in which travellers met their demise, like snow that stopped wars. Her skin, which was always smooth and tight and hard, like marble, whose touch was always cool, which didn't grow blue even when she stood wet on roof during whole winter night, which always carried chill of a dead man in itself, even during midsummer.

Her lips? Her lips, with their perfect shape, and their full colour, which never paled or chapped, as if they were painted on, colour of blood seeping from fresh venison, colour of blood gushing from child's cut arteries, lips that tasted of iron and salt and minced flesh, that left bruises on cheeks they kissed, which could withstand warmth of broth just pulled from hearth (though she despised heat to such amount that she felt uneasy to spend more than few hours in room in which fireplace was lit).

Her hair? Her hair, so long and wild, spreading out like crown of ancient tree, slipping down below her waist, and yet somehow it never got tangled up in world around it, slipping like snake through all obstacles, black as ebony, as handles of spears that pierced children, as frames of windows that kept out wind and rain. Left and right it reached, like shadow of branches, like hands of bogeys, and never it got tangled, never did it get torn or weak.

Some said that when she had been growing up, that she had never had to suffer zits, or growth spurts, or ungainly limbs, that she had simply slipped in perfect ladylike adulthood. Others yet said that she suffered all indignities of childhood, of being teenager, and yet she was most beautiful of them all.

She wondered what it was that made people beautiful. There was woman with most stunning purple eyes, like lilac blossoms, like dusk sky, and people agreed she was very beautiful, but were disgusted by sight of her shoulders, filled with short, fat, coarse black hairs. There was tall man, very strong and muscled, in way that would have drawn him much attention, were it not for his crooked yellow teeth, dull chin and broken nose. There were children who had cutest, sweetest faces, with shining eyes and soft lips, who walked with bent backs and reedy fingers. It seemed all very much strange and whimsical and cruel to her, and very much useless and foolish.

She was beautiful. No, she was fair. Were she malnourished and her face slashed and mutilated, were she turned in beast, in worm or featherless bird (those two were equally dreary things, in her mother's opinion) still she would have been the best of them. When she came to doors, though they were closed, inside men waited and stopped breathing, awaiting her. They trailed after her, excited to earn her favour. Still she was a girl, and magic inside her was settling, so she wasn't fairest in the world, but one day wars would be waged for her, because of her, in her name. One day, when she had grown bitter and harsh and so much angrier, at gaze of her people would prostate themselves, and shake from being in same room with her, and they would not sleep, memories muddled and drunk, and in dreams they would swear to her again and again, for fear and love would mingle in one.

Her mother was beautiful, and sorceress, and she had killed and fucked and loved, and she had much gold, and she could make fields prosper and cows miscarry with her spells, and men dreaded her, and respected her, and loved her. Her grandmother called her Freyja made human, and paid for it.

Snow White had been called goddess, and valkyrie, and many more things. And she may have possessed spark of that true, primordial beauty, but she was mortal still. Gods were born and could die but not like men. Snow White breathed, and slept, and she could cut herself, and she could get lost, and she had thrown tantrums before, and were you to cut her throat she would die. She was not a goddess, to rule over skies and dead, at best she was an image, a shadow, a mask, shallow surface layer of divine beauty, not enough to charm stars in kneeling before her, but heavy enough that it crushed her.

(When she was young, she saw her mother's mirror once. It's frame was twisted and strained thing, contorted in ways that were hard to look at, like a dying snake experiencing a seizure. The glass was colour of frozen mercury, and reflection in it wasn't opposite of reality, and sometimes it churned and twisted, making little waves, and always it whispered.

Most people stayed away from it, and even the queen couldn't bear to be too long in room with it, but the princess was drawn to it, like iron to magnet.

''Oh. You are like me.'' Whispered the mirror, in toneless voice that echoed in her head, and it pulsed like heart, and writhed like worms in waves, and sighed as she put her cold fingers over it's surface, neither chill nor warm.)

***

It was easy to become a king, she learnt. You had to be born a prince, or earn king's favour, or lie to enough people so they would bow to you, or kill enough of them, preferably previous king too. All in all, it seemed very stupid and unfair to Snow White, who didn't really get why people needed kings, but said nothing because she knew what was appropriate, and because she was raised to inherit kingdom and didn't really think of how unjust it was outside of random musings.

It wasn't easy to become a queen, no matter what some thought and said. Any woman could be married to king, depending on how picky he was, and how much politics demanded from him, and how much he disrespected her rights. But only few became queens, true rulers, because they were taught not to seek respect and power, because they were beaten back, because game was set against them, because they were declawed and defanged and chained since earliest age, because they were taught to find pride and comfort in being silenced and starved. It took certain rare amount of cleverness and stubbornness and dedication, and, perhaps, ruthlessness, to become queen.

But Snow White didn't have to worry about that. Her mother loved her, and worked hard to ensure that her daughter would never have to go through all the trouble and misery she had to dredge through, and still she would get so much more. It was so hard for her poor mother, after all, to stand and suggest her idea to the king as he was busy being enraptured by his daughter.

How could he refuse her? How could he name anybody else but his most incredible daughter as his heir (the queen gritted her teeth), how could he dishonour her by not offering her everything he had? And would not people rebel if anybody else ruled them, would not enemies beg to be stricken down by her? So he thought, and declared, and people were outraged and shocked until they had seen her, and then ambassadors returned to their kings weeping, telling them they have been become traitors, for never could their hearts belong to anybody but queen Snow White.

Thus, thought it was expected that she would be married, for that is what normal people did, and beauty didn't prevent people from grumbling when they weren't near her, there was never much pressure for that, and everybody understood that no man would be worthy of her, and all would be blessed to have her as bride, and they would only be consorts, never kings.

It was taken for granted that there would be no problem finding suitors for her, aside from possibly having to deal with wars that rejected suitors would bring to their footsteps ( something that would easily be dealt with, not only because the king was good warrior, and the queen even better sorceress, but because any invader would have to carve their path through whole nation of berserkers ready to die for their princess, and even more ready to tear apart any who would dare to try to steal her away). It was also taken for granted that king would have to pay no dowry, and that indeed princes would be ones bleeding their people dry in hopes of winning her over.

As was only proper, the queen had been one to choose her son-in-law, for the princess had asked her so, for her mother had assured her countless times of how much she cared, how smart she was, and how much more experienced, and she would be able to choose only the best for her dear daughter, a man whose kingdom would always provide for her, a man who would be her age and always kind to her, for those were hefty favours to ask in marriage, her mother told her. Kind husband was something you had to earn, as the queen did, but since she was such kind mother and her daughter so special, she would get all the spoils without any work.

And truly, the queen chose well. Prince was the same (apparent) age as Snow White, and he was sole heir of nearby kingdom, richer and greater than one her father ruled (so greater that only thing that kept it from swallowing up their home, aside from their king's courtesy, was the queen, who knew all plans and desires of their neighbours, and could hold off the harvest and spring for years). He was said to be canny but honest, and rather good with sword and bow but pleasant, never one to seek out bloodshed. He was honourable and fair, and though well liked by ladies, hadn't dishonoured even one.

It sounded like bullshit to her, to be honest. Even her father, who was fair and wise, had his moments- he loved brawl, especially when he broke somebody's bones. And Snow White, well, she kept herself away from people, and never harmed anybody (but never helped out either), and still she had cruelty built in down to smallest piece of herself. Still, there were no whispers, no juicy gossip, and mirror found nothing unsatisfying and dangerous about him (for her mother would never lend her greatest treasure to somebody who would damage it), and so it was that Snow White was to be engaged.

The princess had met his parents, once or twice, for they sometimes rode out near borders of her country, and she had scried them, once she learnt where she was to be wed, in bronze mirror she had and rarely used for anything else. The king was thin, wiry man, with wild graying beard and wry voice, covered in pale old scars, and missing few teeth, and otherwise utterly unremarkable. His wife, a merchant's daughter they said he married for love, was short and warm woman, as sweet and well beloved as fat, greased meal in late autumn, with face as round as apple and eyes like chestnuts, or so flatterers said.

The prince was very handsome, they said. He was of fine face and figure, strong and healthy, with teeth that were nearly white, and warm eyes like amber, with flickers of gold inside it. His skin was of warm, ruddy tone, and he moved with energetic, dangerous strength and grace, as if he had fire inside himself. With his auburn hair, like wood in fall, and his clothes, all gold and russet, he was said to be as beautiful as sunrise.

He wasn't, and she envied him for that. She envied them all, him for his ordinary beauty, his mother for her soft, sweet features, his father for being unremarkable and gray.

( Snow White was a human girl, and so she was often prey to all misfortunes that plagued them, even teen woes. But as wrapped up in magic and mystery as she was, even that had to be unusual.

Truth is, Snow White is envious of everybody. There isn't a single face, single body she doesn't desire more than hers. She desires form that some would find boring, nothing special, perhaps even funny or repulsive. She envies her mother's fallen rival, her father's former lady, her brother's mother, for she is famous for her eyes as blue as sea, but princess finds neither salt nor waves nor fishes nor thousand shades and forms of water in them. She envies the cook's apprentice, for though she is known as very attractive woman, and it brings her trouble occasionally, she can talk to her brothers without them shaking with glee as they look at her. She envies her prince's mother, who is loved and respected for reasons that have nothing to do with beauty.

She has had her fair share of crushes, never acted on because they weren't appropriate for somebody of her status, because her mother wouldn't be satisfied with her choice, because they couldn't stop drooling when she passed. And so they all died, candle flames extinguished before they were anything more than a spark, leaving her to choke on guilt and longing and bitterness, to suffocate in impossible, petty desires.

She had never desired anybody because of their looks. She couldn't, because she had never been able to perceive beauty in people, because she had herself to rate them against. She looked at finest examples of human beauty and found thousand flaws, looked at them and saw how artificial it was, how dependent on right time and place and taste. Snow White could be skinned alive and have her bones broken and her head split open and covered in dirt and yet anywhere in world they would proclaim her the most beautiful.

But she couldn't be loved or desired. She was too stark and sharp and terrible for that. She wasn't a girl whose hand you could hold, woman who you could lay against, a person to hug and kiss and laugh with. Everything in her was hard and cold, like ice sculpture. She was there to be looked at, not loved. Because even as humans adored beautiful people, they didn't love ones who had truly been beautiful.

Human beauty was shallow, false and thin. All humans were equally beautiful, and they just had to work more or less on convincing others to find them attractive. But Snow White bore true beauty, heavy as mountain, truer than her father's blade. Primordial, essential, actual, her beauty was a true, divine thing, real and defined in mutable, shapeless world of human misconceptions. She was a marble statue trapped among embroidered caricatures, and she envied them so much.)

So she held no hopes, and received a grand surprise. For though her prince's eyes seemed ready to fall out of his skull, and bliss sparkled in them as tears gathered on edges, after some time he composed himself and gave her warm, cocky smile, and bowed and kissed her hand and talked with her.

They talked. They rode on horses. He laughed at her embroidery. She rolled eyes at his jokes. They showed each other their favourite hiding places. They sparred with hands and swords. He lost to her in race and she in archery. They walked in woods and put their knowledge of animals and herbs to trial. She learnt that he was truly as good and honest as he was rumoured to be, but easily bored, and he could get lost daydreaming, and loved to go sight seeing, and fussed too much about his clothes. He learnt that she liked to forage berries, and kept falcons, and hated jewellery, and was horrible dancer. They had even argued few times!

She fell in love with him, a little. Enough that they kept contact when she ran away. Enough that he wanted to expose queen's crimes. Enough that he wanted to give her honour of burial. Enough that when he died, she walked away.

Enough that he said nothing, when she commissioned shoes for her mother.

('' I wish he'd at least pretend to treat me like person.'' She had whispered, standing alone in his father's corridors, and when she met him she believed he was somehow immune to her beauty , that he saw person underneath.

''Stop with that!'' She shouted, when men offered her their hearts, and they did, and only later she noticed that some people adored her in quiet, steadfast way, no less terrible but much subtler, because they didn't want to die for her, they wanted to serve her.

''I love you.'' She told him, and of course he said yes, of course he loved her, he had to, even as he laid dying, and years later she kept wondering whether she imagined something russet and golden running at end of corridors.)

***

When she is queen, she will keep her chambers bare.

Everything about her will be bare, and simple, and cold. They will say, her husband’s people, when they are far away from her, that it is because she comes from colder, humbler, more barbarian kingdom that she is unused to fine luxury (she likes simple things because she spent so much time in the woods, they say, not understanding how rich, how elaborate, how beautiful everything was there, roots mingling and binding each other in knotwork, impossible shapes in bark, flowers worth more than jewels everywhere around her.)

There will be no excess, no luxury in her sanctuary. No tapestries, no costly furniture, no mirrors. Only bare, chill stone and bed to uphold a minor illusion of normalcy ( a girl of ice and death born, she has slept on Forest floor, and dreamed in mines, and slumbered in coffin of glass and gold). No satin, no velvet, no silk, no gowns or embroidery or crown, for she has no need of them.

No jewellry. Nobody will again tell her she is as precious as gems at her throat.

***

She doesn't dream. She remembers. She remembers memories that are not hers, lodged in between her flesh and bones.

She remembers winter. Always, always it is with her, more crucial than breath, than her name, almost as important as her beauty. She remembers cold of Niflheimr and of coming of first spring. She remembers snowflakes forming in clouds and melting on human faces, the mountain tips lined with white, the ice covering pines, the frost on abandoned blades, the rime that gathers at hem of lost shawls, the chill creeping over river's stones, the snowdrops rising from forming poodles, the crunch of frozen ground as her mother goes to border of Forest.

She remembers having bark, which protected her from rain, and wind, from cold and bugs. She remembers having roots, digging through soil, pulling water and minerals from ground, reaching out to taste sunlight. She remembers how it felt when sap coursed through her, her branches swaying on wind, her leaves remaining green even in winter as those of her neighbours turned brown and red and fell, remembers feeding on rotting flowers and grass caressing her trunk, the seeds falling and spreading, birds making nest in her crown, the queen's knife cutting branches off, off, off.

She remembers being warm, and flowing, being inside the veins. She remembers being child crying for parents lost to plague, the leper cast out of town, the old woman begging for scraps. She remembers warm, concerned voices of mothers who aren't hers, remembers being father, and having gray hair, and being hungry, and told she is ugly (in waking world she cannot imagine that feeling bad, but in dream it is, remembers childhoods that aren't hers. She remembers being scared of bleeding, being cold, and queen saving her/him/them, of being servants and obeying all her wishes, being trusted, and she remembers the blade, the curse, flowing over figure made out of snow until it turns pink, staining and clotting upon ebony talismans.

She dreams of hands upon her throat, and dying, and melting, losing everything, going to no hall, rejoining earth and water and coldness, and it is so peaceful that she almost regrets when she wakes up...

These are terrors that follow her in her dreams. In waking world, she cannot escape seven boys, running after her like most loyal dogs, begging to serve her.

***

At edge of every kingdom there is Forest.

There is difference between a forest and the Forest, just as there is difference between beautiful person and Snow White. The first is just bunch of trees and animals, which, perhaps bit scary at night, can be cut down and cleared away. But the Forests, are so much more, existing outside of civilized world, thinking and feeling and hungering, holding darkness and treasures and monsters within. Place where secrets are born, where miracles go to die, where Quests are done.

The Forests don't like people. They say that Forests were forged from Ymir's dying curse, and therefore there is terrible, chaotic power in them. Thousands of years ago, they marched against them, marched against whole world, and in three days humanity was crushed. For the Forests were grown before intelligent life came to be, and they despised men and their accomplishments. And so no weapon, no spell, no thing made by mortal hands held power within Forests. The strongest sorcerers were rendered powerless, and sharpest blade failed to cut.

It waits for her. Castle where she grew was far away from Forests, so far away that you couldn't even see it on horizon, even as a dark line, but Snow White felt it every day. Being a human girl, somewhat, she didn't know how to feel about it, and sometimes she could ignore it so well that she forgot it's existence, and sometimes it occupied all her thoughts.

(Were she only a spell-child, she would have noticed nothing. Were she a changeling, each day she would have felt same, and knew exact reason why. But mortal she was, and thus she was plagued with uncertain heart.)

Whether she wants or not, someday she will go to the Forest. Things like her must, just as snow must fall. She is too strange and cursed, even for a world full only of witches. She is meant for legends, and some tale will dig it's claws in her, and every tale has it's beginnings in Forest, even ones who have nothing to do with them. And she dreads when that day comes, because in Forest no spell can last, and what shall happen to her then?

(They are at her mother's hidden halls, as they are at every of her birthdays. She is seven, but to rest of the world she is twenty. She rides out, and huntsman accompanies her.

She is always accompanied by somebody, of course, because she must be protected, because always there is danger she would be kidnapped, for who wouldn't want to possess her? The huntsman is young, and good looking, or so she supposes. To her he looks like washed out, boring bunch of bones and flesh, but other girls say he is handsome, and to his misfortune queen agrees. But he is young, and he wants to live, and he is smart, but he has got conscience and she is so beautiful, that he breaks down and confesses everything.

A mother willing to kill her own daughter, and eat her intestines. Sounds horrible, but once they spend some time with princess people understand, even if they believe she was born like them. To live alongside somebody so beautiful, to be outshined while you grew older, weaker, as death came closer, that was horrible enough, but knowledge that nothing you ever do will help you come even closer to impossible ideal that is Snow white is horrible enough. Nobody could live with her, no more than they could gaze in Sun for years.

And besides, beauty like that, it doesn't belong to this world, doesn't come from it, and as such isn't meant to exist there. Beauty like that, it is meant for higher, greater places, not this dreary, low world. It is meant to be a tragedy, a warning, something to mourn for forever even if we never had it. Girls like that, they exist to be beautiful corpses, because no matter what they say, it doesn't matter because nobody will care for anything else but their faces, so this way they do favour to everybody. You can't blame the queen, they say, and after all, makes sense for one who created her to be one to get rid of her.

For first time in her measly seven years of life, Snow White understands how her mother thinks. And she knows what will happen were she to face her.

She turns, and runs in heart of the Forest, in darkness, because it's monsters are at least honest.)

***

She is five hundred and sixty three years old when she sacrifices first child to escape.

Oh, not in usual sense, not yet anyway (it will be little bit longer before she drags children to crossroads at midnight and spills their blood and cooks their hearts to buy escape). Of course, she has killed young people, and somebody's children before, some of them her own descendants, but she has never sacrificed any child. She hasn't taken something innocent and powerless and blameless and cut it's life short to buy few more seconds, because that isn't how story goes. people tell it, and they believe, and souls are dragged from death to relieve it. And hers is simplest story. The queen is powerful, and she desires her death, and Snow White runs until she is caught and put in glass coffin, and then everything begins anew.

She has lived near village for some seven years by then, wrapped up in shawls and masks, because even though it doesn't stop people from gazing in awe it stops them from kneeling, because they only feel her beauty, don't see true miracle of her face. She has kept out of troubles, and even worked in mines so help the village, and she has scried lost children and horses in ice and coins, and brought them home from deep dark woods. And yet, man whose broken leg she healed heard rumours, and connected dots, and went in wide world to tell the queen. And what could she do, but take off her shawls and masks and go down, as they parted before her, as they knelt, and drag his only daughter from her home with but a smile.

''You did a cruel, horrible thing. You were hurting, and you wanted to settle accounts, so you decided to be unfair as well. it didn't help you in the end, but you decided destroying something small and blameless will make you feel better.'' The old, ugly woman with burned face and shadowed hood, dressed in grey and russet tells her, as they hide in cave, as she tends Snow White's wounds and ignores her beauty, as she holds her even as death tries to drag her down. Snow White ignores it- the world had walked over, broken and spat out Cinderella, letting her be nothing but slave, nothing but ceaseless, unpaid servant, nothing but role assigned by her story. She doesn't understand revenge because she has no hope, no happiness, no way out from her life, but Snow White won't be broken like that. Snow White will be strong for them both.

''Do you love me? Do you dare think you are worthy of sight of me? Prove it to me!'' She roars, cackles, smirks as traitor cries, as lighting races from her mother's shining rings, and girl cries and nods, laughs and bows and jumps in front of blazing magic to protect the fairest thing in the world.

For @slavicwitchling ‘s birthday, hope you like it my dear. Sequel to this drabble.

#character:snow white #Story:Snow White #fairy tale retelling #fantasy

28 notes · View notes

aetherrp · 5 years ago

Photo

Abaixo do read more estão os nossos aceitos das últimas 24 horas. Sejam todos muito bem-vindos e bem-vindas! Agradecemos pela aplicação e esperamos que consigam desenvolver seus personagem conosco! Por favor, enviem o blog de personagem para a central em até 24 horas a contar desta aceitação. Divirtam-se!

Acaba de passar pelos portões DALIA AHADI, a herdeira de SCAR ( Rei Leão ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a ALISHA WAINWRIGHT, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante PIM irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões STEFAN PHILLIP II DI DORMANT, o herdeiro de PRINCESA AURORA E PRINCIPE PHILLIP ( Bela Adormecida ). É verdade que ele é idêntico ao CHRIS WOOD, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante YAS irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões CASSIOPEIA ADELINE HOOK, a herdeira de JAMES HOOK ( Peter Pan ). É verdade que ela é idêntica à ALYCIA DEBNAM-CAREY, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante YAS irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões ANTONI JEAN FROLLO, o herdeiro de CLAUDE FROLLO ( O Corcunda de Notre Dame ). É verdade que ele é idêntico ao MATT BOMER, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante QUEEN irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões LEOPOLDO LIDDELL, o herdeiro de ALICE LIDDELL ( Alice no País das Maravilhas ). É verdade que ele é idêntico ao TARON EGERTON, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante QUEEN irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões ANDRÔMEDA CILLIAN MERLINUS, a herdeira de MERLIN E NIMUE ( A Espada era a Lei ). É verdade que ela é idêntica ao ZOEY DEUTCH, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante PANDORA irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões LILY JANE DARLING, a herdeira de WENDY DARLING ( Peter Pan ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a DANIELLE ROSE RUSSELL, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante PANDA irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões NARCISSA TOUSSAINT DE ROTHBART, a herdeira de ODILE ( Lago dos Cisnes ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a SIMAY BARLAS, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante STEVIE irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões MARIE DE ARENDELLE, a herdeira de ANNA DE ARENDELLE E KRISTOFF ( Frozen ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a FREYA MAVOR, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante ELLIE irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões ASPEN BARTHOLOMEW BELL, o herdeiro de TINKERBELL ( Peter Pan ). É verdade que ele é idêntico ao TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante HAL irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões MELENA NESSAROSE THROPP TIGELAAR UPLAND, a herdeira de BRUXA MÁ DO OESTE BRUXA BOA DO NORTE ( Mágico de Oz ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a SELENA GOMEZ, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante BRI irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões EARTHA CLEMENTINE BELL, a herdeira de TINKERBELL ( Peter Pan ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a LUCY BOYNTON, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante RAZZLES irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões THEODOSIA LOSHEEN, a herdeira de NIKEPHOUROS ( Rei De Chifres ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a LEE NAEUN, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante POSEY irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões MARZIA CAPPUCCETTO, a herdeira de CHAPEUZINHO VERMELHO E LOBO MAU ( Chapeuzinho Vermelho ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a AULI’I CRAVALHO, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante MARGOT irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões LIESBETH TATIANA FITZHERBERT, a herdeira de RAPUNZEL ( Rapunzel ). É verdade que ela é idêntica a ESTER EXPÓSITO, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante ROMA irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões BRUCE FROST, o herdeiro de JACK FROST ( A Origem dos Guardiões ). É verdade que ele é idêntico a LUCAS JADE ZUMANN, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante BU irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões JONAS FROST, o herdeiro de JACK FROST ( A Origem dos Guardiões ). É verdade que ele é idêntico a LOUIS HOFMANN, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante JAMES irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

Acaba de passar pelos portões OLEANDER RICHARD WHITE, o herdeiro de BRANCA DE NEVE E PRÍNCIPE ENCANTADO ( Branca de Neve e os Sete Anões ). É verdade que ele é idêntico a MAX IRONS, mas é melhor não mencionar. A ajudante VICK irá cuidar das acomodações antes que a carruagem vire abóbora.

#aceitos.

1 note · View note

enkeynetwork · 3 years ago

Link

#alieninell'arte #iconografia #mistero #ufo

0 notes

midiatoriumblog · 4 years ago

Photo

#XEPA R$ 50 OU MENOS 🔥 SAMBAROCK Quem não gosta de samba(rock), bom sujeito não é 😉. Bebeto e Branca Di Neve, duas lendas das baileiras paulistanas dos anos 80. Samba rock com sotaque oitentista, e que acabou influenciando o pagode dos anos 90, ainda que sem a mesma criatividade e primor técnico. Os dois por R$ 80 à vista (ou R$ 50 cada). Frete por conta do comprador ou retirada em nossa loja física. Compre pelo nosso site www.midiatorium.com.br. Ou se preferir chame a gente inbox ou pelo WhatsApp 1128229755 ✌🏻 #PrefiraMídiaFísica #vinil #vinyl #discodevinil #sebo #lojadedisco #lojadediscos #brancadineve #sambarock https://www.instagram.com/p/CODuGUNMjBH/?igshid=1xir0oa2xjlla

#xepa #prefiramídiafísica #vinil #vinyl #discodevinil #sebo #lojadedisco #lojadediscos #brancadineve #sambarock

0 notes

esportenomundo · 4 years ago

Text

Real Madrid exibe o estádio Santiago Bernabéu coberto de neve

Arena está em obras e, sem cobertura, é atingido por nevasca que cai na capital espanhola. Capitão da equipe, Sergio Ramos aparece sem camisa em treino enquanto neve caía Fechado para uma ampla reforma desde a paralisação do futebol, em março, o estádio Santiago Bernabéu amanheceu coberto de neve nesta quinta-feira. O Real Madrid divulgou uma imagem do local com o gramado e as cadeiras todas brancas, atingidas pela nevasca que caiu na capital espanhola. Veja a tabela do Campeonato Espanhol Estádio do Real Madrid, Santiago Bernabéu ficou coberto de neve nesta sexta-feira Divulgação/Real Madrid O Santiago Bernabéu está sem sua cobertura original e, por isso, ficou vulnerável. Segundo publicações espanholas, a nevasca que atingiu Madri é uma das maiores dos últimos anos. Quando a reforma no estádio acabar, a cena não vai se repetir. Um novo teto retrátil é a principal atração da nova casa do Real Madrid. O novo Bernabéu terá duas torres de evacuação, que terão rampas, escadas rolantes e elevadores, além de dar apoio à nova cobertura. O projeto inicial previa que o Real Madrid não deixaria de jogar no estádio durante a reforma, que deve acabar para a temporada 2022/23. No entanto, ainda com a proibição de público nas partidas, o clube continua mandando seus jogos no seu CT, em Valdebebas, no estádio Alfredo Di Stéfano. O projeto também prevê remodelação das ruas e praças ao lado e a construção de um telão em 360º e novas áreas comerciais. A capacidade do estádio não será alterada. O valor total da reforma está previsto em € 575 milhões (R$ 3,8 bilhões, na cotação atual), que o Real planeja pagar em até 35 anos. Initial plugin text Quem também se exibiu na neve em Madri foi o capitão merengue, Sergio Ramos. O zagueiro, de 34 anos, publicou um vídeo no qual aparece sem camisa após o treino, enquanto a neve caía no gramado do CT do Real Madrid. O defensor está nos seis últimos meses de contrato com a equipe e ainda não acertou a renovação. Na segunda posição do Campeonato Espanhol, o Real Madrid enfrenta o Osasuna neste sábado, fora de casa, às 17h (de Brasília). A partida terá acompanhamento em tempo real no ge.

The post Real Madrid exibe o estádio Santiago Bernabéu coberto de neve first appeared on Esporte no Mundo. from WordPress https://ift.tt/3hZRSxe via IFTTT

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes

forapsdb · 7 years ago

Text

FLAGRA DO JUIZ SÉRGIO MORO E DALLAGNOL EM MESA DE BAR COM CORRUPTOS CHOCOU ATÉ DEFENSORES

Desde que mandou prender o doleiro Alberto Youssef em 2014, oito anos depois de tomar conhecimento de que ele continuava delinquindo, Sergio Moro se tornou uma das pessoas com maior poder no Brasil.

Juiz de primeira instância, poderia ter sido barrado nas instâncias superiores, mas, fazendo uso eficiente da velha imprensa, emparedou autoridades que tentaram se contrapor aos seus excessos. O caso mais expressivo foi o de Teori Zavascki, que, alertado em habeas corpus da ilegalidade da Lava Jato, anulou todas as prisões da primeira leva, inclusive a de Paulo Roberto Costa. Era inicio de 2014 e Moro, a seu modo, reagiu. A vara que ele chefia vazou para a versão online da revista Veja que, entre os soltos, estaria um homem preso por tráfico, cliente de Youssef. O caso repercutiu no Jornal Nacional e Teori foi à TV se explicar. Libertou apenas Paulo Roberto Costa, e manteve todos os outros na prisão. Teori nunca falou sobre sua motivação, mas é provável que seu recuo tenha sido por medo da manipulação que Moro aprendeu a fazer da chamada opinião pública (ou publicada). Dois meses depois, Moro capturou de novo Paulo Roberto Costa, e desta vez ninguém mais se atreveu a contestá-lo. Hoje, solto por acordo de delação premiada e vivendo com um padrão de vida, Paulo Roberto sumiu do noticiário. Mas Moro continua, e já não desperta tanto temor quanto antes. Continua forte — tanto que o Conselho Nacional de Justiça não vota a representação contra ele pelo vazamento ilegal das escutas telefônicas da então presidente Dilma Rousseff. Mas é possível que tenha chegado à fase em que, depois de escalar o monte, começa a descer a ladeira. A conferir. Um indício nessa direção é o vídeo vazado em que ele aparece, com a língua enrolada, pedindo mais uma rodada de cerveja no bar, ao lado de Carlos Zucolotto Junior, o advogado amigo que um réu da Lava Jato, o advogado Rodrigo Tacla Durán, acusa de tentar lhe vender facilidade em acordo de delação premiada. Vídeo abaixo. No bar, estava o cantor Fagner, desafinado, que lhe homenageia com a música Borbulhas de Amor. O encontro de Fagner com o juiz foi proporcionado pelo empresário Joel Malucelli, envolvido num caso de corrupção investigado pela Lava jato. Segundo o Ministério Público Federal, a empreiteira de Malucelli pagou propina para participar de um dos consórcios que construíram a usina de Belo Monte. Foi Malucelli, amigo de Moro, quem proporcionou a ida de Fagner a Curitiba, quando os tempos eram outros — Dilma ainda não havia sido cassada. O bar em que se divertem é o Paraguassu Grelhados, de um irmão de Carlos Zucolotto Júnior, João Luiz Zucoloto (este é grafado com único Z). A mãe de ambos, Olga Zucoloto, se livrou ha alguns anos de uma acusação fraude à execução fiscal, numa manobra que transferiu a propriedade de um imóvel penhorado a Carlos Zucolotto (para saber mais, veja reportagem). Na época em que Moro se divertia no Paraguassu Grelhados com Fagner, em 2015, Olga almoçou com Moro e postou em seu facebook uma foto em que demonstra intimidade com o juiz Moro, que gerou um diálogo com amigas: — Aeee dona Olga.. Tietando rs. Outra, de sobrenome Moro, destacou: — Quanto orgulho deste homem! Que Deus abençoe a vida dele, cada dia. Outra perguntou: — Conta aí dona Olga. Quando vai ser o dia dos rojões? — Fala pra ele prender logo o Lula e a Dilma kkkkk. Olga diz que perguntou: — Já falei. Ele só deu risada, disse que seria o maior foguetório do Brasil, adoro. E reforça: — O maior foguetório no Brasil. Ele só sorri. Os Zucolotos (ou Zucolottos) não têm intimidade apenas com Moro. João, o dono do Paraguassu Grelhados, também já divulgou fotos com Deltan Dallagnol, coordenador da força-tarefa da Lava Jato no Ministério Público Federal. Evangélico, Dallagnol não toma cerveja em público, mas já foi ao Paraguassu. Deve ter ido para provar o espetinho que é a especialidade da casa — miolo de alcatra, cebola, tomate e bacon, empanados. O petisco está concorrendo ao concurso Comida di Buteco deste ano e, por conta disso, mereceu recentemente há uma generosa reportagem da RPC, a afiliada da Globo em Curitiba. No capítulo sobre integridade pessoal e profissional, está escrito: INTEGRIDADE PESSOAL E PROFISSIONAL Art. 15. A integridade de conduta do magistrado fora do âmbito estrito da atividade jurisdicional contribui para uma fundada confiança dos cidadãos na judicatura. Art. 16. O magistrado deve comportar-se na vida privada de modo a dignificar a função, cônscio de que o exercício da atividade jurisdicional impõe restrições e exigências pessoais distintas das acometidas aos cidadãos em geral. Art. 17.É dever do magistrado recusar benefícios ou vantagens de ente público, de empresa privada ou de pessoa física que possam comprometer sua independência funcional. Art. 18. Ao magistrado é vedado usar para fins privados, sem autorização, os bens públicos ou os meios disponibilizados para o exercício de suas funções. Art. 19. Cumpre ao magistrado adotar as medidas necessárias para evitar que possa surgir qualquer dúvida razoável sobre a legitimidade de suas receitas e de sua situação econômico-patrimonial. Mas ele já coisas, digamos assim, mais chocantes, como aparecer em público, em conversa alegre e demonstrando intimidade, com um homem afundado até o pescoço na lama da corrupção: Aécio Neves. Neste caso, teria ferido o capítulo da imparcialidade: IMPARCIALIDADE Art. 8º O magistrado imparcial é aquele que busca nas provas a verdade dos fatos, com objetividade e fundamento, mantendo ao longo de todo o processo uma distância equivalente das partes, e evita todo o tipo de comportamento que possa refletir favoritismo, predisposição ou preconceito. Art. 9º Ao magistrado, no desempenho de sua atividade, cumpre dispensar às partes igualdade de tratamento, vedada qualquer espécie de injustificada discriminação. Parágrafo único. Não se considera tratamento discriminatório injustificado: I – a audiência concedida a apenas uma das partes ou seu advogado, contanto que se assegure igual direito à parte contrária, caso seja solicitado; II – o tratamento diferenciado resultante de lei. Moro tem carta branca, pelo menos no Tribunal Regional da 4a. Região, o mesmo que confirmou a condenação de Lula. Com apenas um voto contrário, a tribunal considerou que Moro conduz um caso único e, por isso, escapa do regramento genérico. A decisão foi tomada quando advogados reclamaram que Moro violou a Constituição ao divulgar escutas telefônicas da presidente Dilma Roussef. O relator do processo, desembargador federal Rômulo Pizzolatti, não viu nenhum indício de infração disciplinar. “É sabido que os processos e investigações criminais decorrentes da chamada operação ‘lava jato’, sob a direção do magistrado representado, constituem caso inédito (único, excepcional) no Direito brasileiro. Em tais condições, neles haverá situações inéditas, que escaparão ao regramento genérico, destinado aos casos comuns”, afirmou. Desde então, se sabe que, em Curitiba, a 13a. Vara Federal Criminal é um juízo de exceção e seu titular, Sergio Moro, uma autoridade blindada. Mas fica a pergunta: Até quando?

#Sergio Moro #deltan dallagnol #PSDB #tucanos #corrupçao #corruptos #parcial #desatucanamoro

1 note · View note

arrabaldo · 4 years ago

Text

Sabrina Orah Mark: ‘Un feixe de mulleres barbazuis’

[foto da chave dun diario mercado nos chinos, aló polo 2005. o diario segue inacabado]

—Sabrina —di a primeira muller do meu home— casou co meu marido.

Escóitoo no programa The Grapevine, un sistema rizomático que se asemella aos corazóns plantados das dúas ex mulleres do meu esposo na mesma parcela de profunda e feraz terra. Videiras coma raíces de sangue, que medran robustas e reviradas. Unha amiga tráeme uns esgallos. Pégoos á orella e escoito.

Cóntolle ao meu marido que estou a escribir sobre Barba Azul. «Arre demo!», espeta.

Mírome no espello. Torneime máis fea e máis forte. Enxergo pola fiestra unha cabana branca que refulxe no xardín. Vivo no «incerto país do matrimonio».

‘Barba Azul’ apareceu por vez primeira na obra do século XVII Contos de Mamá Ganso de Charles Perrault. Un home cunha barba azul, varias mulleres desaparecidas e unha inmensa cantidade de diñeiro dálle á súa nova muller as chaves para todas as portas da súa exquisita propiedade.

—Abre todo o que queiras —prégalle—. Vai onde gustes, agás a esa «pequena habitación» —engadiu.

Pedinlle ao meu marido que limpase o garaxe; no canto, mentres estou fóra cos nosos fillos durante o verán, constrúe no xardín —no medio e medio— unha cabana branca. Cando as paredes xa están montadas, a segunda muller deixa á súa filla para que viva connosco, seica é para sempre. Tamén deixa moitas caixas. O contido, descoñecido. O garaxe está un chisco baleiro. A cabana está un chisco chea. Chamo á miña nai.

—Agora hai unha cabana no xardín —coméntolle.

—Pois claro —contesta—. Bótalle un ollo, a ver se non vén con esposas.

Hai portas que ningunha terceira muller debería abrir.

O meu marido, o home máis afable na terra, achegouse a min cun abrigo de antigos votos. Casei con el a sabendas de que carrexaba varias esposas. Ao mellor casei con el un pouco porque os votos lle afundiran os sucos da face. Como o tipo de letra que quería ler, pero que nunca puiden. Casei con el plenamente consciente, o que non sabía era que as esposas seguirían medrando nunha habitación pechada dentro do meu corazón. Ás veces bulen, enfurecidas, tristes. Esposas, como papel de pegar. Esposas enredantes. Esposas como a pel. Esposas que lle contan cousas ás súas fillas e que estas, as fillas do meu marido, non me contan. Ese silencio respira no meu interior.

—Que dixo ela? — sempre ando a preguntar.

—Quen dixo que? —contesta o meu home.

«Disque», escribe Angela Carter, «no comezo, había un gabinete de curiosidades, un coma este, asoballado de marabillas; agora, tanto a habitación como todo o que contén, están prohibidos para ti, a pesar de estaren feitos co teu nome, listos para ti desde o comezo dos tempos, e serás ti quen pase toda a súa vida tentando lembralos».

Non son unha persoa demasiado celosa, pero doe pensar no meu marido dicindo «si, quero; si, quero; si, quero».

Unha vez ao mes, durante todo un ano, dinme que a primeira muller do meu marido se vai mudar á nosa cidade en calquera intre, pero nunca o fai. É como cando os meus fillos colocaban unha culler de prata debaixo dos coxíns coa esperanza de que nevara en Georgia. Nin a neve nin a muller aparecen endexamais. Agás unha única vez. Pero non era neve senón sarabia.

—Esa é unha comparación moi mala —sinala miña nai—. Esposas? Neve? Quen está poñendo que debaixo do coxín? Quen quere que veñan as esposas? Ti?

O matrimonio é duro. Hai días nos que todas as esposas mortas son eu. A muller que nunca está triste. Morta. Guindada. A muller cun bo salario. Morta. A muller cun garaxe limpo e unha fiestra que dá cara fóra da súa cociña. Morta. A muller que baila. Morta. A muller célebre. A muller cuns dentes perfectos. A muller que organiza as festas nocturnas cheas de brillantes poetas. Morta, morta, morta.

Como denominas a máis dunha muller? Un feixe de mulleres barbazuis?

Para que un matrimonio sobreviva hai que arredar dalgunhas partes da historia. Fago un buraquiño no conto para non quedar cega ao mirar o sol. Mensaxe eliminada. O vello arrepentimento. A derrota. O meu marido e máis eu levamos casados dez anos. Máis tempo do que estivo casado coas outras dúas mulleres, pero non en conxunto. Non quero aos meus fillos, nin por asomo, preto das súas esposas. É como se caeran e eu non puidese saltar para salvalos. «Buraco negro e cárcere non son palabras moi agradables para falar das mulleres», escribe Margaret Antwood na súa versión dos contos de fadas, «pero seguían moi agochadas nos miolos de Sally».

Poucas contos teñen unha vida posterior tan fecunda como ‘Barba Azul’. Ás veces é unha chave ensanguentada, unha flor estragada, un ovo, unha mazá ou unha marca en forma de corazón na fronte, proba da desobediencia da muller. Ás veces é unha nai coa «saia negra axustada á súa cintura» a que salva á última esposa da decapitación. «Unha atolada e magnífica amazona posta ata arriba de maría». Ás veces é un dragón e outras un mosqueteiro. Ás veces é a muller a que se salva por si mesma.

Do mesmo xeito que o matrimonio, a longa vida cultural de ‘Barba Azul’ é enigmática. Igual que as historias de fadas, o matrimonio pertence a unha círculo incesante de finais felices coa forma dun acantilado. Revolvo unha gran caixa con vestidos e barbas. Alguén as usou con anterioridade. É o meu marido quen leva agora a barba. Eu levo o vestido. «Si, quero». El tamén di que si. Todo forma parte da nosa pel.

Na ‘Cámara sanguenta’ de Angela Carter, a esposa sen nome está ao lado da cama matrimonial do marqués rodeada de tantos espellos que, cando o marqués a ispe, o que ve son centos de maridos espindo a centos de mulleres. Cando o marqués lle di que se prepare para morrer, «doce mulleres novas aloumiñan os interminables monllos de cabelo castaño a través dos espellos». No limbo entre o sexo e a morte, a muller multiplícase. Tórnase un exército de esposas que descende pola ladeira. Veñen a salvala ou a unirse a ela? Difícil sabelo.

Non debería estar a escribir nada disto. Non é unha boa idea. Este ensaio é a chave ensanguentada. O meu acto de desobediencia.

Na edición de 1812 de ‘Barba Azul’, publicada nas Fábulas dos irmáns Grimm, Wilhelm Grimm (nas notas ao pé de páxina) sinala que Barba Azul pensaba que o sangue das súas esposas podería curalo do azul da súa barba. Por iso recolle o sangue en cuncas; báñase nel. As mulleres mortas son a súa medicina. Unha enfermidade imaxinaria precisa dunha cura imaxinaria. «A maxia», escribe Maria Tatar, «ocorre no límite do prohibido».

Busco entre fotos antigas do meu marido. Nunha delas está coa súa segunda muller e a súa filla recén nacida, durmidiña encol dun coxín. A funda é gris e branca; decátome de que é a mesma funda suave sobre a que durmo, sobre a que levo durmindo moitos anos. Quéntaseme a cabeza. Unha vergoña que morde. Tiro a funda e colócoa coas alfombras. Deberíalla dar á miña fillastra, pero non o fago e non sei por que. Nunca o fago.

Estou casada cun home ao que quero moitísimo e que viviu outras vidas antes da que compartimos xuntos. En ocasións fedello para ver se me atopo nalgunha desas vidas. Debaixo da cama. Debaixo dunha árbore. Algún día aparecerei de súpeto susurrando bú.

As esposas seica poderían meterme nun barril cheo de unllas e lanzarme a rebolos costa abaixo ata caer no río.

A primeira vez que coñecín ao pai do meu marido foi no seu funeral. O ataúde estaba aberto. Ata o día de hoxe, o pai do meu home é o único morto no que teño posto a vista. O noso fillo, Noah, tería os seus ollos, a súa boca, pero eu aínda non o sabía. Trala homenaxe que lle fixo o meu marido ao seu pai —pero antes de regresarmos á igrexa—, achegouse a súa primeira muller onda el, coma un suave morcego branco. Un refacho que levaba pechado na cámara moitos anos. Veuse abaixo nos brazos del. Tremía, saloucaba e volvía en si, coma se estivese retornando da morte. Sentei no banco como unha nena pequena. Compartían a dor e ás súas fillas. Para cando cortaran, eu aínda era unha meniña.

Se as esposas de Barba Azul morresen por ter visto ás devanceiras mulleres, por que faleceu entón a primeira muller? Que vería?

No funeral saúdo á súa primeira muller. Queda aí. Non me saúda. Fítame. Non sei que facer, así que lle dou unha aperta. Aquí estamos; abrazadas; mecéndonos nunha igrexa. Éche vella dabondo como para ser a miña nai.

Esta é a maneira de facer unha cadea de esposas de papel: corta unha peza longa de papel; dóbraa en catro partes, coma un acordeón. Debuxa metade dunha muller na parte superior. Recorta a muller e dobra. Voila. Xa tes unha cadea de mulleres dándose a man!

Eu son a muller ao final da cadea. Miro cara a esquerda, ao final do corredor. Vexo a pequena habitación. A pequena habitación na que podo escribir de forma segura. Esta é a combinación: chave, flor, ovo, mazá, corazón. Abro a porta. Entro. Observo o lugar. Cheira a vida. Se puidese facelo de novo, volvería casar co meu marido nesta pequena habitación. Aquí nacerían os meus fillos. Morrería nesta habitación. Faríao. Fareino. Si, quero.

[trad. Marina Pardavila]

----------------------------------------

O texto completo está dispoñible na revista literaria The Paris Review. Botádelle un ollo!

#sabrina orah mark #contos de fadas #tradución

0 notes

chamademesimbad-blog · 5 years ago

Photo

Ás veces pasan cousas así de lindas. Envíanme esta foto do ordenador de Marta, unha lectora que non coñezo persoalmente pero, quen ma envía, di que é unha gran seguidora do meu traballo literarario. Ten como fondo de pantalla do ordenador da oficina, a cuberta do meu O CORAZÓN DA BRANCA DE NEVE. Di, seica, que é a portada máis boa do mundo! Pois o mérito todo é da responsable de deseño da Editorial Galaxia, Hayat Hussein Arteaga. https://www.instagram.com/p/B3EiLSuCuKX/?igshid=111av83f7y5ix

0 notes

coscienzadigitale · 6 years ago

Text

Artificial Curiosity

Ne sentiamo parlare ovunque, ne leggiamo sui giornali, nei libri, nelle pubblicità, alla TV. Oramai, non importa che tu sia una multinazionale ricca e famosa o una piccola azienda locale: se i tuoi software non sono dotati di Intelligenza Artificiale e, come tali, vengono promossi, il rischio è quello di finire dritti dritti ai margini del mercato. Insomma, ne abbiamo tutti sentito parlare, ma non tutti magari sanno quali “sorprese” ci aspettano

“Può una macchina pensare? " si chiedeva Turing settanta anni qualche anno prima che questa disciplina fosse denominata come tale e si diffondesse così largamente. Ma cosa vuol dire Intelligenza Artificiale? Google it… Scherzo, più o meno. Sì, perché fornire una definizione di AI (Artificial Intelligent) è un’impresa ardua visto che si dovrebbe dapprima definire cosa intendiamo con Intelligenza e cosa intendiamo con Artificiale. Beh, non basterebbero un paio di volumi. Facciamo che ci limitiamo a intendere con AI quella branca dell’informatica che si occupa dello sviluppo di software in grado di “simulare” il comportamento (cognitivo e intellettivo) umano. Come direbbe Turing, stiamo cercando di far pensare un computer, o almeno, far credere che sia pensante.

Alan Turing all'età di 16 anni - Fonte: Wikipedia

A questo punto, supponiamo di dover sviluppare una particolare Intelligenza Artificiale che sia in grado di imparare più in fretta rispetto agli altri AI agent. Senza dilungarsi in panegirici filosofici, l’essere umano basa la propria capacità di imparare sull’esperienza; esso, infatti, si sposta in giro per il mondo ad esperire, cercando di capire come funzionano e come si evolvono i fenomeni che incontra, dai quali, attraverso numerosi “feedback”, ricava le proprie constatazioni. Così sappiamo che il fuoco brucia e che la neve è fredda. Ma cosa spinge l’uomo a fare esperienza? Che si parli di necessità è chiaro, carattere intrinseco della natura dell’uomo spinto dall’istinto di sopravvivenza, ma è opportuno fare riferimento anche alla curiosità, quel desiderio di scoperta che ha spinto i grandi uomini del passato alle grandi scoperte che ci hanno portato qua, hic et nunc.

Intelligenza Artificiale si ferma incuriosità mentre cerca l'uscita dal labirinto - Fonte: OpenAI

Così, con lo scopo di emulare questo comportamento, sono stati sviluppati algoritmi di Intelligenza Artificiale dotati di pattern che simulano la curiosità umana: allenati adeguatamente, questi algoritmi riescono ad imparare in maniera più rapida rispetto a qualsiasi altro agente dotato di AI. Questo perché tali algoritmi esplorano il mondo che li circonda alla scoperta di “stati” non ancora analizzati. A differenza delle altre AI che necessitano di numerosi dati per essere allenate (training), Curiosity AI imparano “per conto loro” esplorando l’ambiente nel quale sono inserite e ricavando autonomamente i dati: in tal senso, se scoprono che un certo path si ripete più spesso dopo una certa azione, saranno più propensi a valutare di compiere un’altra azione con l’interesse di “scoprire” cosa succede.

Sembra geniale, ma siamo ancora agli antipodi di questa nuova implementazione. Infatti, è stato sperimentato che spesso tali algoritmi finiscono per “perdersi” all’interno del software in cui vengono inseriti poiché perdono di vista l’obiettivo finale: ad esempio, se tentiamo di allenare una AI a superare un certo livello di un gioco senza “morire”, è probabile che l’algoritmo finisca per entrare in un loop di “sconfitte del livello” per poter esperire quel che succede. Allo stessi modo immaginiamo di dover allenare due AI Agent a sconfiggere un avversario a Pong, una dotata di Curiosity e una senza: mentre quest’ultima impiegherà un certo tempo per capire come riuscire a vincere sempre, è probabile che la prima, pur capendolo più in fretta, si interessi invece a scoprire cosa succede andando avanti nel gioco senza vincere o perdere. Quasi divertente.

PONG, simulatore di Ping-Pong - Fonte: Wikipedia

Come tutte le nuove tecnologie che si stanno sviluppando, anche questa richiederà del tempo affinché possa essere ottimizzata ed utilizzata sfruttandone tutte le proprie potenzialità. Certo sarà interessanti sperimentarci sopra per vedere che succede. Non siete curiosi?

Davide Arcolini

#rivoluzdigitale #artificial intelligence #AlanTurin #CoscienzaDigitale #curiosity #Davide

0 notes

conhecendoaumbanda · 8 years ago

Photo

Zélio Fernandino de Moraes nasceu no dia 10 de abril de 1891, no distrito de Neves, município de São Gonçalo - Rio de Janeiro. Aos dezessete anos, quando estava se preparando para servir as Forças Armadas através da Marinha, aconteceu um fato curioso: começou a falar em tom manso e com um sotaque diferente da sua região, parecendo um senhor com bastante idade.

A princípio, a família achou que houvesse algum distúrbio mental e o encaminhou ao seu tio, Dr. Epaminondas de Moraes, Diretor do Hospício de Vargem. Após alguns dias de observação e não encontrando os seus sintomas em nenhuma literatura médica, sugeriu à família que o encaminhassem a um padre para que fosse feito um ritual de exorcismo, pois desconfiava que seu sobrinho estivesse possuído pelo demônio. Procuraram, então, também um padre da família que após fazer ritual de exorcismo não conseguiu nenhum resultado.

Tempos depois Zélio foi acometido por uma estranha paralisia, para o qual os médicos não conseguiram encontrar a cura. Passado algum tempo, num ato surpreendente Zélio ergueu-se do seu leito e declarou: "Amanhã estarei curado". No dia seguinte começou a andar como se nada tivesse acontecido. Nenhum médico soube explicar como se deu a sua recuperação. Sua mãe, D. Leonor de Moraes, levou Zélio a uma curandeira chamada D. Cândida, figura conhecida na região onde morava e que incorporava o espírito de um preto velho chamado Tio Antônio.

Tio Antônio recebeu o rapaz e fazendo as suas rezas lhe disse que possuía o fenômeno da mediunidade e deveria trabalhar com a caridade. O Pai de Zélio de Moraes, Sr. Joaquim Fernandino Costa, apesar de não freqüentar nenhum centro espírita , já era um adepto do espiritismo, praticante do hábito da leitura de literatura espírita . No dia 15 de novembro de 1908, por sugestão de um amigo de seu pai, Zélio foi levado a Federação Espírita de Niterói. Chegando na Federação e convidados por José de Souza, dirigente daquela Instituição, sentaram-se à mesa. Logo em seguida, contrariando as normas do culto realizado, Zélio levantou-se e disse que ali faltava uma flor. Foi até o jardim apanhou uma rosa branca e colocou-a no centro da mesa onde realizava-se o trabalho.

Tendo-se iniciado uma estranha confusão no local, ele incorporou um espírito e simultaneamente diversos médiuns presentes apresentaram incorporações de caboclos e pretos velhos. Advertidos pelo dirigente do trabalho, a entidade incorporada no rapaz perguntou:

"Por que repelem a presença dos citados espíritos, se nem sequer se dignaram a ouvir suas mensagens? Seria por causa de suas origens sociais e da cor?"

Após um vidente ver a luz que o espírito irradiava perguntou:

"Por que o irmão fala nestes termos, pretendendo que a direção aceite a manifestação de espíritos que, pelo grau de cultura que tiveram quando encarnados, são claramente atrasados? Por que fala deste modo, se estou vendo que me dirijo neste momento a um jesuíta e a sua veste branca reflete uma aura de luz? E qual o seu nome meu irmão?"

Ele responde:

"Se julgam atrasados os espíritos de pretos e índios, devo dizer que amanhã estarei na casa deste aparelho, para dar início a um culto em que estes pretos e índios poderão dar sua mensagem e, assim, cumprir a missão que o plano espiritual lhes confiou. Será uma religião que falará aos humildes, simbolizando a igualdade que deve existir entre todos os irmãos, encarnados e desencarnados. E se querem saber meu nome que seja este: Caboclo das Sete Encruzilhadas, porque não haverá caminhos fechados para mim."

O vidente ainda pergunta:

"Julga o irmão que alguém irá assistir a seu culto?"

Novamente ele responde;

"Colocarei uma condessa em cada colina que atuará como porta-voz, anunciando o culto que amanhã iniciarei."

Depois de algum tempo todos ficaram sabendo que o jesuíta que o médium verificou pelos resquícios de sua veste no espírito, em sua última encarnação foi o Padre Gabriel Malagrida.

No dia 16 de novembro de 1908, na rua Floriano Peixoto, 30 · Neves · São Gonçalo · RJ, aproximando-se das 20:00 horas, estavam presentes os membros da Federação Espírita , parentes, amigos e vizinhos e do lado de fora uma multidão de desconhecidos. Pontualmente às 20:00 horas o Caboclo das Sete Encruzilhadas desceu e usando as seguintes palavras iniciou o culto:

"Aqui inicia-se um novo culto em que os espíritos de pretos velhos africanos, que haviam sido escravos e que desencarnaram não encontram campo de ação nos remanescentes das seitas negras, já deturpadas e dirigidas quase que exclusivamente para os trabalhos de feitiçaria, e os índios nativos da nossa terra, poderão trabalhar em benefícios dos seus irmãos encarnados, qualquer que seja a cor, raça, credo ou posição social. A prática da caridade no sentido do amor fraterno será a característica principal deste culto, que tem base no Evangelho de Jesus e como mestre supremo Cristo".

Após estabelecer as normas que seriam utilizadas no culto e com sessões diárias das 20:00 às 22:00 horas, determinou que os participantes deveriam estar vestidos de branco e o atendimento a todos seria gratuito. Disse também que estava nascendo uma nova religião e que chamaria Umbanda. O grupo que acabara de ser fundado recebeu o nome de Tenda Espírita Nossa Senhora da Piedade e o Caboclo das Sete Encruzilhadas disse as seguintes palavras:

"Assim como Maria acolhe em seus braços o filho, a tenda acolherá aos que a ela recorrerem as horas de aflição; todas as entidades serão ouvidas, e nós aprenderemos com aqueles espíritos que souberem mais e ensinaremos aqueles que souberem menos e a nenhum viraremos as costas e nem diremos não, pois esta é a vontade do Pai".

Ainda respondeu perguntas de sacerdotes que ali se encontravam em latim e alemão. Caboclo foi atender um paralítico, fazendo este ficar curado. Passou a atender outras pessoas que havia neste local, praticando suas curas. Nesse mesmo dia incorporou um preto velho chamado Pai Antônio, aquele que, com fala mansa, foi confundido como loucura de seu aparelho e com palavras de muita sabedoria e humildade e com timidez aparente, recusava-se a sentar-se junto com os presentes à mesa dizendo as seguintes palavras: "- Nêgo num senta não meu sinhô, nêgo fica aqui mesmo. Isso é coisa de sinhô branco e nêgo deve arrespeitá". Após insistência dos presentes fala:

"Num carece preocupá não. Nêgo fica no toco que é lugá di nêgo".

Assim, continuou dizendo outras palavras representando a sua humildade. Uma pessoa na reunião pergunta se ele sentia falta de alguma coisa que tinha deixado na terra e ele responde:

"Minha caximba, nêgo qué o pito que deixou no toco. Manda mureque buscá".

Tal afirmativa deixou os presentes perplexos, os quais estavam presenciando a solicitação do primeiro elemento de trabalho para esta religião. Foi Pai Antonio também a primeira entidade a solicitar uma guia, até hoje usadas pelos membros da Tenda e carinhosamente chamada de "Guia de Pai Antonio".

No outro dia formou-se verdadeira romaria em frente a casa da família Moraes. Cegos, paralíticos e médiuns que eram dado como loucos foram curados. A partir destes fatos fundou-se a Corrente Astral de Umbanda. Após algum tempo manifestou-se um espírito com o nome de Orixá Malé, este responsável por desmanchar trabalhos de baixa magia, espírito que, quando em demanda era agitado e sábio destruindo as energias maléficas dos que lhe procuravam.

Dez anos depois, em 1918, o Caboclo das Sete Encruzilhadas, recebendo ordens do astral, fundou sete tendas para a propagação da Umbanda, sendo elas as seguintes:

Tenda Espírita Nossa Senhora da Guia

Tenda Espírita Nossa Senhora da Conceição

Tenda Espírita Santa Bárbara

Tenda Espírita São Pedro

Tenda Espírita Oxalá

Tenda Espírita São Jorge

Tenda Espírita São Jerônimo

As sete linhas que foram ditadas para a formação da Umbanda são: Oxalá, Iemanjá, Ogum, Iansã, Xangô, Oxossi e Oxum. Enquanto Zélio estava encarnado, foram fundadas mais de 10.000 tendas a partir das acima mencionadas. Zélio nunca usou como profissão a mediunidade, sempre trabalhou para sustentar sua família e muitas vezes manter os templos que o Caboclo fundou, além das pessoas que se hospedavam em sua casa para os tratamentos espirituais, que segundo o que dizem parecia um albergue. Nunca aceitar a ajuda monetária de ninguém era ordem do seu guia chefe, apesar de inúmeras vezes isto ser oferecido a ele. O ritual sempre foi simples.

Nunca foi permitido sacrifícios de animais. Não utilizavam atabaques ou qualquer outros objetos e adereços. Os atabaques começaram a ser usados com o passar do tempo por algumas das Tendas fundadas pelo Caboclo das Sete Encruzilhadas, mas a Tenda Nossa Senhora da Piedade não utiliza em seu ritual até hoje. As guias usadas eram apenas as determinadas pelas entidades que se manifestavam. A preparação dos médiuns era feita através de banhos de ervas e do ritual do amaci, isto é, a lavagem de cabeça onde os filhos de Umbanda fazem a ligação com a vibração dos seus guias.

Após 55 anos de atividade, entregou a direção dos trabalhos da Tenda Nossa Senhora da Piedade a suas filhas Zélia e Zilméia, as quais até hoje os dirigem.

#A historia da umbanda #umbanda #zelio fernandino de moraes #estudos

2 notes · View notes