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The sad eyes of the tape
Running on the recorder
A girl sewing clothes
With the Equator line
The voice of the saint saying:
What am I doing
Stay on top of this scaffold
The paint paints the asphalt
It adorns the driver's soul
And color in the color of the city
Lipstick on the northern lip
The look see tones so southeastern
And the kiss that you northeastern me
Scratch sky in the mouth of São Paulo
Electric chairs from Bahia
Sense that the tourist smells
And those without love and the homeless
And those without passion, without a bushel
In the chest of the chestless an arrow
And the illiterate gypsy
Reading the hand of Paulo Freire
Contentment of the sad
Sadness of the happy
Voices of a knife cutting
Like the laughter of the serpent
They are the sounds of yes, no, however
Broken foot, mute veil
Scream in our hospital