Criado Na Campanha

I miss seeing my father and the big house where I was raised
Mangueira and shed in the shade of the fig tree and my grandfather working with cattle
The birds in the woods singing at dawn on cold mornings
My grandmother sweeping the yard and my mother by our side

From the frogs croaking at night
From the cricket's bell and the tarãs' voice
From the rooster's crow and the fireflies
That light up the fields of my Camaquã.

I miss the old horse that pulled the cart for us to ride
The farm dog that herded the cows and oxen for us to plow
The animals roaming the yard, the old stories my grandpa told
The sweet milk that grandma made and the crops dad planted

From the frogs croaking at night...

I miss the pond baths and the woods where we hunted
Where we set traps and the stream where we fished
The cattle grazing on the edge of the meadow, the lapwings flying over
The parakeets decorating the pine trees and the araquãs singing in the woods

From the frogs croaking at night...

I even miss the teacher from the little school I attended
My friends, neighbors' children from the hills where I lived
These memories invade my soul, the emotion becomes immense
Only those who lived the rural life like me, raised in the countryside, can understand

From the frogs croaking at night...