Some times I hear the songs of bem-te-vis,
and wistfull childhood scenes come clear to mind.
No matter how far they were left behind,
these birds renew them in my memories.
On the veranda, shaded by guava trees,
my mother quietly sews and gives her heed
to fair embroiderings of her routine.
I sit beside her silently and read
my books whose stories feed my fantasies.
The wind sets free a shadow young and green
and fills the air with songs of bem-te-vis.