Infância

My father rode on horseback, went to the field.
My mother sat sewing.
My little brother slept.
Alone, as a boy among mango trees
I read the story of Robinson Crusoe,
A long story that never ends.

In the white noon of light, a voice that learned
to lull in the depths of the slave quarters - and never forgot
called for coffee.
Black coffee like the old black woman
delicious coffee
good coffee.

My mother sat sewing
looking at me:
- Psst... Don't wake the boy.
To the crib where a mosquito landed.
And she sighed... so deep!

Far away my father was ranching
in the endless bush of the farm.

And I didn't know that my story
was more beautiful than Robinson Crusoe's.