Beirando a Rumba

Big black cambará
Taste of sarrabulho sounded
In the throat
Dry balafon sound
In the mouth the pororoca exploded
Tororó

Hey hey hey hey hey
Aiaô aiaô aiaô aiaô
Aeaê aeaê aeaê aeaê
Aeaô aeaô aeaô aeaô

Bordering the rumba
Smelling like Cuba
Watering the grave
Umbing the band
Mambing the snake
Turning Havana
Speaking the ganzá
Dancing over there
Digging the chest
Hunting vultures
On the beach, on the beach...

My wisdom is a handful of dead secrets.
What I have discovered so far, the treasures I have stolen,
none of them shone more than a single day,
a single moment.
Then a cascade of shadows falls,
and a nightly flood takes the gold of my days.
The days, as far as I know, there is not a single one
that has not turned into night.
That is all my wisdom.
But my nights, with their dark hammers,
have sculpted my being and made me an arrow.
I know nothing, but I would need nothing more.