Текст и перевод песни Xirú Missioneiro - Mundo Missioneiro

Mundo Missioneiro

Voltei no meu pago pra pisar na grama Cheirar o campo do Legoamirim
Rever o rastro da carreta grande
Nem tocas o rimo no pé de cupim
Encher a pipa na fonte nativa
Caminhar por cima da taipa do açude Fazer aquilo que eu já tinha feito
E alguma coisa que ainda não pude
Vi as raízes viradas pra cima
E o capão que tinha cortaram também
E aquele campestre onde pastava o gado
Tá tudo virado nem grama não tem

Viraram rastros, arrancaram pastos
E o Guamirinzal fizeram fogo em tocha Não vi Quero-Quero, nem canto de Grilo
E o velho Zorrilho não tem mais a toca

O mangueirão de Luareijão roliço de cerne mociço
Queimaram as tronqueiras
Do Sinamomo que tinha copado
Caiu abraçado com o pé de Figueira
O trator do gringo entupiu a fonte
Atuiou o açude nem a taipa presta
Do que era muito resta poucos tronco
E do que era pouco de si nada resta
Nem do Bugio escutei mais o ronco Sentado num tronco, cheguei a chorar
A Figueira grande tava derrubada
Aonde eu brincava nos tempos de piá

Viraram rastros, arrancaram pastos
E o Guamirinzal fizeram fogo em tocha Não vi Quero-Quero, nem canto de Grilo
E o velho Zorrilho não tem mais a toca

Mundo Missioneiro

I returned to my hometown to tread on the grass To smell the field of Legoamirim
To see again the traces of the big truck
Nor do I touch the termite mound at the bottom of the foot
To fill the kite in the native fountain
To walk over the adobe of the reservoir To do what I had already done
And something I still couldn't
I saw the roots facing up
And the grove that was there was also cut down
And that rangeland where the cattle grazed
It's all turned over, there's no grass

They turned into trails, they ripped up pastures
And Guamirinzal made fire in torches I didn't see Caracara, nor the song of Cricket
And old Zorrilho no longer has his burrow

The paddock of Luareijão, sturdy, freshly cut heartwood
They burned the logs
Of Cinamomo that had been topped
It fell embraced with the Fig tree
The gringo's tractor plugged the fountain
It choked the reservoir, not even the adobe is good
Of what was much, there are few trunks left
And of what was little, nothing is left
Nor of the Howler Monkey did I hear the rumble Sitting on a trunk, I came to tears
The big Fig tree was knocked down
Where I played in my childhood

They turned into trails, they ripped up pastures
And Guamirinzal made fire in torches I didn't see Caracara, nor the song of Cricket
And old Zorrilho no longer has his burrow