Kupahúba has her roots
She doesn’t go to meet the wind
it’s the wind that embraces her
bringing the scent of bacába,
the fleshy fruit,
of mangaba, the aromatic pulp,
of pitanga, of murex shells..
In the orange-red sky
silence darkens the light
Kupahúba sees a river stretch out
gushing out from the house of the sun.
Wind brings a shining light
and black, red-hot smoke
forces itself among the trees
leaves burn moving
in the turmoil of the forest
between chaos and smoke
All is fire… trees fall…
all is ash:
In this frantic rhythm even the sky shall fall.
The massacre doesn’t stop:
Kupahúba waits for the fire, still,
bound to her roots.
She feels the fire running through her branches
her green body shakes and feels pain
she who soothes pain feels
fire howling through her trunk
burning her roots
and the dead ground of the wasted forest,
The holocaust of a mass of trees.
The wind doesn’t bring familiar tunes
green and blue disturbances
come back come back, ancient rhythms
Márcia Theóphilo, 2000
English version by Riccardo Duranti