This morning I woke up with sounds of the ceiling

(my roof-top is being changed):

passing through the breaks of the ceiling,

falling through the wooden-filters, the light

drew mad and funny yellows

at the top of the white walls;

and the sound that was made in the most top

was big, at seven o´clock;

it was like gods have demanded the Titans:

“Change the Roof-top”, and in the crowd came,

Refugees from other forest long darkened,

Different bugs and strange crickets,

And golden libelulas ever imagined…

It falls the dust of the old roof, into the house…

It might be said that a crypt makes in dust..

Rotten by the lime, the roof goes..

If I turn to be seven again,

I would be crying: “Poory of the roof...”

And would save a little piece in the little box…

It falls the dust of the old roof,

And it comes the sun

Over the wooden-ceiling

Cleaning the sótão, completely.
and the pale maidens sunbathe

After so many years...

Celing bathed by the Sun...


New roof-top...



It is felt the fresh

Of years gone...