O Poeta da Roça

I am a son of the forest, a singer of the thick hand
I work in the fields, in winter and in my own style
chupana is covered in mud
I only smoke cornbread cigarettes

I'm a poet of the wilderness, I don't play the role
Of argum menestrê, or errant song
Who lives wandering, with his guitar
Singing, fool, searching for love

I don't know, because I never studied
Only I know my name to sign
My father, poor thing! He lived without copper
And the poor man's son cannot study

My low, simple and boring verse
Don't enter the square, the rich hall
My verse only enters the field, the countryside
In the poor hut, from the mountains to the backlands

I only sing about the hustle and bustle of a tight life
From the heavy work, from the fields and the fields
And sometimes, remembering happy youth
I sing a longing that lives in my chest

I sing the caboco with his cassada
In the haunted night that terrifies everything
Inside the forest, with so much courage
Coming across the visage called caipóra

I sing of the cowboy dressed in leather
Fighting the bull in the thick bush
That takes the tip of the brave boyfriend
Earning praise from the cattle owner

I sing of the beggar in dirty rags
Covered in rags and backpack in hand
Who cries asking for help from men
And he dies of hunger, homeless and without bread

And so, without greed for the shining coffer
I live content and happy with my luck
Living in the countryside, without seeing the city
Singing the truths of northern things