O Poeta da Roça

I'm the son of the forest, singer of the rough hand
I work in the fields, in winter and summer
My pipe is covered in clay
I only smoke corn husk cigarettes

I'm a poet of the wilderness, I don't play the role
Of some master or wandering singer
Who lives wandering, with his guitar
Singing, carefree, in search of love

I have no education, for I never studied
I only know how to sign my name
My father, poor thing! Lived without money
And the poor son can't study

My verse is humble, simple and without grace
It doesn't enter the square, the rich salon
My verse only enters the countryside, the fields
In the poor hut, from the mountains to the backlands

I only sing the hustle of tight life
Of heavy work, of the fields and the harvest
And sometimes, remembering happy youth
I sing a longing that lives in my heart

I sing the countryman with his machete
In the haunted night that frightens all
Inside the forest, with so much courage
Facing the creatures called caipora

I sing the cowboy dressed in leather
Fighting with the bull in the dense bush
Who catches the wild calf by the horns
Earning praise from the cattle owner

I sing the beggar in dirty rags
Covered in scraps and a bag in hand
Who cries asking for help from men
And falls from hunger without a home or bread

And so, without desire for shiny coffers
I live content and happy with my fate
Living in the countryside, without seeing the city
Singing the truths of the things from the north