I live far away, but I miss home. I like the safety I have, but I miss the warm sea water. I speak three languages, but I miss the caboclo accent. I drive an “imported car,” but I remember the “bicicreta” with affection. I play tennis but I’d love to be playing that pickup game on the street outside my house. Barbecue turned into hamburger, French bread turned into pancake, samba turned into blues, and emotions turned into numbers.
But I miss home, and I’m proud to say I’m Brazilian.
Yesterday I went out in my yellow jersey, 2 hours after the game, I ran into several Germans, and lots of Mexicans and Americans… I smiled with pride… me?!? I’m Brazilian, with a lot of pride and a lot of love.
If you want to live abroad, want changes, want improvements… I support that… just don’t think that to improve we need to turn our Brazil into another country… fight for change, but be Brazilian… try to stop with the “jeitinho,” but be Brazilian… support education and healthcare, but don’t forget our “holy pickup game” every Monday afternoon… study music, but don’t forget samba.
…. Certain songs fit so deep inside me, that asking begs the question: how was it not me who wrote it? …
I’ll stay among the people, … Watching my samba school, win or lose One more carnival before I say goodbye.
When I can no longer step onto the avenue; When my legs can no longer carry my body together with my samba; My bamba ring I’ll hand to whoever deserves to wear it.
I leave to the youngest sambista my final request:
Don’t let the samba die Don’t let the samba end The hill was made of samba Of Samba, for us to dance to