Na hora do almoço

In the center of the room, in front of the table
At the bottom of the plate, food and sadness
We look at each other, touch each other, and fall silent
And misunderstand each other the moment we speak

Fear, fear, fear, fear, fear, fear

Each one keeps their secret more
Their closed hand, their open mouth
Their deserted chest, their still hand
Sealed and locked
And wet with fear

Father at the head: It's lunchtime
My mother calls me: It's lunchtime
My younger sister, with black hair
My grandmother complains: It's lunchtime!

Hey, young man!
And I'm still quite young for so much sadness
Let's leave things aside, let's take care of life
Or else death will come or something similar
And drag us away, young man, without having seen life

Or something similar, or something similar
Or something similar, appeared
Or something similar, or something similar
Or something similar, appeared