O Espantalho

I am the figure of the old scarecrow
Through traps and shortcuts life forgets me
I am made of rags
The sky is my roof
And the children of grandchildren no longer know me

I am the hope of the plowed land
Vigil watched over the grain sprout
I am an amulet, a charm, a blessed one
I wander endlessly rooted in the ground

In the enchanted world of the young warrior
I was a precise target for his slingshots
I played with the winds
I heard confidences, I cried for the absences
I had no fatigue

I dreamed with the stars, I courted the moons
In Guarani rounds of winter and summer
The widow nights gave me shelter
And with the rainwater I made my mate
And with the rainwater I made my mate

Today the moth of time has gnawed my figure
There is no longer in this plain my rough semblance
I had no offspring of reason or herds
I remained in the old days with a distant time

When the earth cracks and the seed dies
The fruit does not grow and the landscape changes
In this sea of poisons and a thousand pesticides
For living scarecrows I will yield my place

I am the figure of the old scarecrow
I am the figure of the old scarecrow