Look, the parade is turning the corner,
Look, even life gives a sign.
The city pins flowers on routine
and calls the whole thing fine.
I, such a model citizen,
so proper, so in control,
have put my modesty on the shelf
just to see where this might roll.
There’s a doctor dressed as a pirate,
a poet begging for rhyme,
and those who swear it’s all performance,
but no one dances for nothing, not even in Carnival time.
I’ll wear whatever costume
doesn’t weigh too much on me,
because sometimes what we announce
is what we’re aching to be.
If I step a little off rhythm,
“Blame the band,” they’ll say.
But everyone knows that tempo
was beating in me anyway.
I promise — it’s only four days.
By Tuesday night, I’m back to normal life.
But tell me gently, if you can:
who gets to define that type?
If Wednesday calls me forward
with tie and measured tone,
perhaps I’ll hide in the lining
some spark that I have known.
The parade moves fast and flashy,
but it leaves a question behind:
if I liked my lack of control…
do I really want to rewind?
First composed in Portuguese, shaped by the rhythms and social nuances of Brazilian Carnival.
The text above is an adapted English version.
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