From the clay
In between Araguaia and Tocantins
(The last, which I've bathed)
I was made.
But Guarapiranga, Billings, Tietê and Pinheiros
Settled me.

Here my story was tailored,
Here life showed the rush,
The vibrancy, the flourishing.
Life was made important by the second,
By intensity, by chances.

All we got left
Are our stories,
We are our main characters,
The storyteller,
The author, the god.

We tell, we do, we fight.
We hurt, we cry, we learn.

Yet, a beautiful story
Is meant to be
just an old story.

There are no snowy winters
Here in São Paulo.