Caldeirão Dos Mitos

I saw the sky at midnight
Turning red in a flash
Like a fire foretold
In the apocalypse of Saint John
But it wasn't any of that
It was a Curisco, it was a Lampião

I saw a streak in the spaces
It was a flock of sanhaçu birds
I saw the day breaking
In the rumble of the maracatu
It wasn't Saint George's lance
It was the thorn of the mandacaru

I saw a prophet leading
The crowds in the encampments
To build a sacred ground
With rifles and machetes
It wasn't Moses in Palestine
It was Conselheiro walking in the backlands

I saw the sound on the staircase
Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do
It wasn't the echo of the trumpets
Of Joshua in Jericho
It was an eight-bass accordion
Playing on a forró night

I saw a skinny yellowish man
Tricking the boss
It wasn't anyone from England
Nor from Paris, nor from Japan
It was Pedro Malazarte
It was João Grilo and it was Cancão

I saw the sound at noon
In the middle of the Ceará ground
It wasn't the choir of the Archangels
Nor was it Jehovah's voice
It was a rattlesnake coiling to strike
Shaking the maraca

I saw a hand shaping the clay
A strong man
A naked man
A white man like me
A black man like you
But it wasn't God's hand
It was Vitalino from Caruaru