O Rancho da Goiabada
João Bosco
The Guava Paste Ranch
The farmworkers when they have a few drinks
Chasing away the sadness
Dream of steak with eggs, french fries
And for dessert
It's thick guava paste, with lots of cheese, then coffee
Cigarette and the kiss of a mulatto named
Leonor, or Dagmar
To love, a transistor radio, a crocodile stove, the lunchbox
Sunday at the bar, where so many alike gather
Telling lies to be able to endure
They are fathers of saints, hitchhiking poles, they are samba dancers
They are the afflicted, they are pendants, shop assistants
Clowns, Martians, cannibals, crazy lilies
Dancing, sleeping with eyes open
In the shadow of the allegory
Of the embalmed pharaohs
