Queixa Das Almas Jovens Censuradas

They give us a lily and a pocketknife
And a soul to go to school
Plus a sign that promises
Roots, stems, and corolla

They give us an imaginary map
Shaped like a city
Plus a clock and a calendar
Where our age doesn't appear

They give us the honor of a mannequin
To wind up our absence
They give us a prize for being like this
Without sin and without innocence

They give us a boat and a hat
To take our picture
They give us tickets to heaven
Staged in a theater

They comb our barren skulls
With our grandmothers' wigs
So we never resemble
Ourselves when we're alone

They give us a cake that is the story
Of our story without plot
And another word for fear
Doesn't ring in our memory

We have such well-mannered ghosts
That we fall asleep on their shoulder
We are empty, uninhabited
By characters of terror

They give us the cloak of the gospel
And a pack of cigarettes
They give us a comb and a mirror
To comb a monkey

They give us a carnation pinned to our head
And a head attached to the waist
So the body doesn't resemble
The shape of the soul seeking it

They give us a coffin made of iron
With diamond inlays
To already organize the burial
Of our body later on

They give us a name and a newspaper
An airplane and a violin
But they don't give us the animal
That butts its horns into destiny

They give us cardboard sailors
With a stamp on the passport
That's why our dimension
Is neither life, nor death