In the middle of the road there stood a stone in the middle of the road there stood a stone in the middle of the road

Childhood

My father would ride his horse, he would go to the field.
My mother would sit down and sew.
My little brother would sleep.
A boy among mango trees, by myself
I would read the story of Robinson Crusoe,
a long story that never comes to an end.

In the white-lighted noon a voice that learned
to sing lullabies in the bygone slave quarters – and never forgot –
would call us for coffee.
Black coffee like the black old lady,
tasty coffee,
good coffee.

tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho

Infancia

Meu pai montava a cavalo, ia para o campo.
Minha mae ficava sentada cosendo.
Meu irmao pequeno dormia.
Eu sozinho menino entre mangueiras
lia a historia de Robinson Crusoé,
comprida historia que nao acaba mais.

No meio-dia branco de luz uma voz que aprendeu
a ninar nos longes da senzala – e nunca se esqueceu
chamava para a café.
Café preto que nem a preta velha
café gostoso
café bom.