Porteira a Fora

Spring arrived beautiful
Horsemen tussling
Lambs frolicking
It's branding time
A tradition of service
In these borderlands
And our country folk
Show the strength of their arms
Handling every lasso
On the corral beach

The cowboys unsaddle
In the shade of the shin guards

The sheepherders stay watching the gear
A country boy wants to lick the saddle girths
Horseflies fly, tied horses kick
And a cardinal sings on top of the reeds

Dust clouds rise into the sky
Born from the hard ground of the corral
Cows graze bellowing for the calves
And a farmhand chats with his partner

Wires jingle, poorly herded calves
And the cowboys take off their boots, roll up their sleeves
Cane liquor and pitanga are remedies in a gourd
Country essence, taste of bush and stream

Set fire to those brands, Gratulino
Because Silvino Bololó is on horseback
Mano Vaz throws the lasso on a post
And Borbinha takes a swig from the bottle

Pituca skewers the meat for the barbecue
Cipriano peals, covers, and marks
Mature men sitting on the gear
And in the middle, mate accompanies the talk

Homeowner Venâncio risks a throw
Bololó frees the pull, on horseback
Shouts of: Tighten, come to brand, it's lassoed
There's roasted egg on the stove's embers

Beautiful throw, everyone shouts
Tighten, it's the boss's
Don Venâncio throws the lasso
Over the calluses of his hand

Paid the throw - says one, well armed
Well spun, whizzing the throw in the air
Let it go looking at the open field
Because the fall is certain when the throw ends

Turn to stay on the side!
Says one who takes the brand
Break the tail, Foro
So Juca runs the tarca!

This one's for a bull, not a calf!
The boss orders firmly
Put effort into sitting the brand
A handspan above the hock

What good people from these lands of my flower
In the stirrup, a worn leather saddle
A tied handkerchief, a fluttering country flag
When roping a calf for a pen

Luiz Bacia asks for space, setting up the lasso
And for the arm in a shot, far, from behind
Masterful throw when the braid ends
And the fall is fate that nature undoes

Diamantino, Pampas Indian breed
A sovereign even with nothing in life
Wandering drover, obedient and servant
From the corridor, made home, route, and departure

I was a kid who learned to rope
And knock down at the gate exit
I was a messenger reaching the brand and saw
Carving a piece and breaking it for the cooks

I played guitar and played harmonica in the barns
And in the kitchens, cheering up the country folk
I traveled everywhere roping as I grew up
Since I left the lands of Encruzilhada

I became a man in that time
Of tightening, branding, marking
That's why these things
Resurface in our speech