Morte do Leiteiro

By Cyro Novaes

There is little milk in the country
It must be delivered early
There is much thirst in the country
It must be delivered early
In the country, there is a legend
That thieves are shot dead
So the young milkman
In the early morning with his can
Runs out and distributes
Good milk to bad people
His can, his bottles
And his rubber shoes
Are telling the sleeping men
That someone woke up early
And came from the farthest suburb
To bring the coldest milk
And the whitest from the best cow
For everyone to gain strength
In the fierce struggle of the city

In his hand the white bottle
There is no time to say
The things I attribute to him
Nor the ignorant milkman
Living on Namur Street
Employed at the depot
At 21 years of age
Who knows what impulse is
Of human understanding
And since he is in a hurry, his body
Leaves behind at the houses' edges
Only merchandise

And as if the back door
Also hid people
Who long for the little milk
Available in our time
Let's advance through this alley
Let's take the corridor
Let's deposit the liter
Without making noise, of course
Noise solves nothing

My subtle milkman
With gentle and light steps
Glides rather than marches
It is certain that some noise
Is always made: A wrong step
A flowerpot in the way
A dog barking by principle
Or a quarrelsome cat
And there is always a man who wakes up
Grumbles and goes back to sleep

But this one woke up in panic
(Thieves infest the neighborhood)
He didn't want to know anything else
The revolver from the drawer
Jumped into his hand
Thief? You catch with a shot
The shots in the early morning
Ended my milkman
Whether he was engaged, whether he was a virgin
Whether he was cheerful, whether he was good
I don't know
It's too late to know

But the man lost all sleep
And runs out to the street
My God, I killed an innocent
A bullet that kills a thief
Also serves to steal
The life of our brother
Whoever wants can call a doctor
The police won't lay a hand
On this son of my father
Property is safe
The night goes on
Morning is slow to come
But the milkman
Sprawled out in the open
Lost the hurry he had

From the shattered bottle
On the already serene pavement
Something thick trickles
That is milk, blood... I don't know
Among confused objects
Barely redeemed from the night
Two colors seek each other
Gently touch each other
Lovingly intertwine
Forming a third tone
That we call dawn