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Quando da brisa no açoite a frô da noite se curvô Fui s'incontrá com a Maroca meu amô Eu tive n'arma um choque duro quando ao muro Já no escuro meu oiá andô buscando a cara dela e num achô. Minha viola gemeu, meu coração estremeceu Minha viola quebrou, teu coração me deixou. Ah! Minha Maroca arresorveu por gosto seu me abandoná Porque os fadista nunca sabe trabaiá Isso é bestêra que das frô que bria e chêra a noite intêra Vem apois as fruita que dá gosto saboreá. Pur causa dela eu sou rapaiz muito capaiz de trabaiá E os dia intero, e noite intêra a capiná Eu sei carpi purquê minh'arma está arada Arroteada capinada c'oas foiçada dessa luis do teu oiá...
- by Mário de Andrade (1893 - 1945) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887 - 1959), "Viola quebrada", subtitle: "Toada caipira", W 158 no. 6 (1919-29), published 1929 [ voice and piano ], from Canções típicas brasileiras, no. 6, Paris: Max Eschig [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Sarah Daughtrey) (Lucy Zollner) , "Broken guitar", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Mirna Rubim
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 124
When the breeze whips The night flower curves itself I went to find my love Maroca I felt a hard blow in my soul when to the wall Already in the dark my eyes went searching For her face and couldn’t find it. My guitar moaned, my heart shuddered My guitar broke, your heart has left me. Ah! My Maroca decided, as is her pleasure, to leave me Because the singer never knows how to work It’s foolish to think that the flower That shines and smells all night long Will then grow into fruit that gives pleasure to taste. Because of it I'm a guy very capable of working And every day, every night I weed I mourn because I know my soul is ploughed Ploughed and cleared as if scythed by The light from your eyes...
- Translation from Portuguese (Português) to English copyright © 2017 by Sarah Daughtrey and Lucy Zollner, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
This text was added to the website: 2017-05-05
Line count: 20
Word count: 138