Xote dos Poetas

I dreamed of Pablo Neruda, on the beach of the Future
Writing on a huge wall, the word freedom
With poems by Vinicius, in their hands they were brothers
Reciting Éluard
And people in the afternoon, poets from all over the world
Writing everywhere, the word freedom
I flew with Castro Alves, Gregório and Gonçalves too
Latin days and nights, Cabral dancing a frevo
And a blind man improvising, in the vast hall of brightness
Flashed a smile, the word freedom
The whole Andrade family, Zé Limeira, Ferreira and me
Pessoa and Garcia Lorca, burning a noose
Hoisting Manuel Bandeira, the word freedom
Maracatu of D. Santa, Batutas of S. José
Patativa do Assaré, and also Dodô and Osmar
I saw Dirceu behind bars: Open up, Marília, it’s me
Dreaming in a sky of fire, free ones that will be too
And a scent of tangerine, peeling Jorge de Lima
The inventions of Orpheus, Murilo Mendes prayed
The people shouted in the valley, on a big concrete wall
Neon gas over the desert
The inscription liber late
The flip-flop shouted, heating up the low-income
Spelling out a pau-de-arara, between Maria's thighs
And a plate of beans, deciphered by the illiterate
Mallarmé's writing, in the midst of a stroke of luck
Death ran off to Mars
Life said: Here jazz swings everywhere
Xote, xaxado and baião, the improviser Azulão
Announced in the backlands
The word freedom
A desperate song, two Chileans loved
They left with three maidens, four dark-haired girls
At five o'clock sharp in the afternoon, the six big basques
In seven stars they turned, eight Brazilian brides
Nine daggers, ten balconies
Blood on the wall of the afternoon
The word freedom
Freedom