Arm of the moon that, under the sun,
will join sky and water.
Son of peaks and jungles,
that large and sweet receives the sea.
In your shore the blooming ceibo bleeds
and the green pampa comes to drink
in your straight body, where the summer
throws bulls of mud and honey.
The guitars soak your heart,
that will curl by the wheatfields.
They bring the zamba from the fruitful North
and will leave it in your shores,
for its voice, in love with the carnal light,
fragance your women, Paraná.
In flaxfields you'll recover
the sky you search for in the extension.
Father of fruits and woods:
your heart blooms in deltas.
Green in the rigin you'll go across,
the blue night troubled by the work
and from the moon, like a road,
will come your glow breaking light.