It was last Sunday I passed
the house Mariquinhas lived
But everything is so changed
I did not see at nowhere
Those windows with blinds
From the floor to the ceiling
I saw nothing, nothing, nothing
that could remind me Mariquinhas
And there is a blue pane, stuck in the place
Where the blinds were
I went in and where the room was, now
there is a skinny guy sitting at the desk
But I did not see bedspreads with embroided hemlines anymore
Nor viola, nor guitar
Neither furtive nosy glances from the women in the neighborhood
Time spiked its claws
Into the soul of that house
Into the place we many times snacked sardines
When in nights with guitar and party
Mariquinhas used to feel so joyful
The windows looked so bright and coloured
With curtains of a bobble patterned fabric
They lost all the grace because they are just a pane today
with curled frames in iron
And anyone that comes in there today,
they come in only to get to the pawn shop
to deliver to the loan shark a couple of things
This is the misery that the grace of
Mariquinhas's house has come to
Having done what they did to the house
Better if they had imploded it
Because, turning into a pawn shop
What was a nest of love
is an idea that does not fit with mine
Memories of warmness
And the taste of nostalgias, I will try to forget them
by relishing some ginjinhas
Because "feeding the thirst of my pain is the best thing to do"
As Mariquinhas used to say
Because "feeding the thirst of my pain is the best thing to do"
As Mariquinhas used to say