Fingers are fingers, days are days,
mothers are mothers, children are breedings.
Thoughts, are only mine
but my tongue, is not that mine.
If you plant roses, watermelons grow,
if you wait for cars, streetcars pass.
That's my land, that catches a cold
and has the flu, since a thousand days.
When will it heal and walk?
When will it change and sing?
I know you'll say
look, how the roses grow,
and then I'll tell you
I see it, my land is still beautiful.