Brasa

Embers

A poet once said, watching the man and his path:
"the bird's home is the air, not the nest".
And I flew... I spent some time away, I spent some time far.
No matter how long, no matter where.
In a colder place, or suddenly hotter, where people are strange, a different place.
Another language, another culture, another currency.
Yes, tough life but I'm tough in the fall.
If you knock me down... I get up, and I went through ups and downs, job after job, working to pay the rent and overcome the tension of the immigration nightmare.
Clandestine, immigrant, ragged.
Another underdeveloped who chose exile, looking for a chance to make some money, missing the third world in the first.
Family, friends, my elders, my brother - my little world in the background.
I forced some smiles and some friendships.
I spent some bad time, missing you.
I'm missing you, I'm missing you.
I'm missing you, I'm missing you...
From the polluted beauty, the illuminated favela, the flavor of the food, the sound of the drumming.
From the culture, the mix, the precarious structure.
From the farofa, the little bread and the daily madness.
From the Sunday barbecue, the sharing and the credit, the child sleeping there, the retired elder.
I'm missing you, I'm missing you...
From the offered mulatta, the poorly done pagode, cheering in the stands for my beloved team.
The sacred soccer game with the guys, the toothless smile in the joke circle.
From the trickery, our cunning, the lemon twist, the cold beer, how delightful!
I'm missing you, I'm missing you...
From the newspaper at the stand, the news to read, the girls from the TV programs.
From the little way, the improvisation, the general mess.
From the human warmth, the backyard.
From the climate, the rhyme, the party made for nothing - typical habit of taking everything easy - the contact, the bush, the smell and the color.
And our way of making love.
Now I'm a poet, watching the man walk:
the bird's home is the nest, not the air.
And I came back. And I spent some good time, after my return.
Me and my people, warmer hearts, meal in the oven.
Water in the beans, I'm in the area, little creature.
If you knock me down... I'm not alone anymore.
I'm back indeed.
I'm Brazilian, with great pride, with great love.
But love is blind.
I must admit, I must and I don't deny, that little by little I was facing reality, seeing how Brazil was burning, was in a bad state.
Seeing my land like this in war, my country... it's not, it's not possible to be happy.
And a revolt hits, and a depression hits.
And frustration hits, and the heart beats not to die.
But it hits wary.
Hits in the dark, without hope in the future, hits despair.
Hits insecure, in the third world, if so, missing the first.
The elders, the children, the brothers - no one here at home has the right to make plans.
I forced some smiles and tearful laughs.
I spent some bad time, dying of shame.
I'm dying of shame, I'm dying of shame.
I'm dying of shame, I'm dying of shame...
From the polluted beauty, the illuminated favela, the lack of food for those who have nothing.
From the posture, the usury, the daily torture.
From the special cell, the prison structure.
The Sunday massacre, the sharing and the credit, the child there asking, the chained elder.
I'm dying of shame, I'm dying of shame...
From the offered mulatta, the poorly done pagode.
Dying in the stands for my beloved team.
The hard-earned salary that serves for nothing, the toothless smile in the joke circle.
From the trickery, our militia, the PM's beat, the police's beating.
I'm dying of shame, I'm dying of shame...
From the newspaper at the stand, the news to read, the TV program girls.
From the little way, the improvisation, the general mess, the lying smile in the electoral campaign.
From the party atmosphere, the party made for nothing - ridiculous habit of taking everything easy - the contact, the bush, the smell of carrion.
And our way of making justice.
But I'll stay in Brazil because Brazil is my home, the home of my heart.
But I'll stay in Brazil because Brazil is my home and my home just needs a good cleaning.
Lots of water and soap.
Soap, my brother.
Don't get dirty.
Indignation.
Manifestation.
More information.
Awareness.
Communication.
With all reason.
Participation.
In voting and pressure.
Claim.
Reformulation.
Water and soap in our nation.
Water and soap, it's in our hands.
I'm dying of passion, I'm dying of passion...