Passou de branco, preto é. Não existe este negócio de mulato.
Mulato pra mim é cor de mula.
They say I was born na cinza das horas
of the time
when sun has slit its wrists
into the undarkened sky
and some have cried openly
at the newborn color. But is the spectrum
born? Or torn from stubbornly
disobedient scores of prisms
that refuse the stick instead for feast
Eating all they can eat
or at least all of what string is
dangled in front of their nose. I know
this game well. I have since trod
many miles with a mão
promising the knowledge of steed
and strength of ass yet, sat backwards,
my rider not knowing the difference. Indeed, I wonder
at the validity of color, at the providence of a Black
Orpheus. What song is there to sing
me home? What map is made by O Cavalo Morto?
I look to the stars to bring
me answers, but all I see is the absence of color.