20 phrases by Patativa do Assaré that represent Northeastern art

If the land was created by God, if it is the work of creation, every peasant must have a strip of land.

I’m a native of the Northeast, raised in the woods, a caboclo goat of the plague, a flat-headed poet.

I am a farmer poet from the interior of Ceará, the misery, the crying and the pain, I sing here and I sing there.

I’m a son of the Northeast, I don’t deny my nature, but a terrible drought took me from there to here.

Before the election, party, laughter and pleasure, after the election, tax and more tax. Poor countryman from the northern hinterland!

I’m a poet of the bush, I don’t play the role of argum minstrel, or wandering song that veve wandering, with his guitar, singing, pachola, to the percura of amô.

My professor was fire based on Portuguese, catalogue, it was catalogue, but great favô made me.

Sertão, argue you cantô, I have always been singing and I am still singing.

There is pain that kills a person without mercy or mercy. But there is no pain that hurts like the pain of longing.

It is better to misspell the right thing than to misspell the wrong thing.

Longing inside the chest is like a dunghill fire. On the outside everything was perfect, on the inside making a hole.

I don’t know, because I never studied, only I know my name sign. My father, poor thing! lived without copper and the poor man’s wire cannot study.

I really learned from the birds.

When winter time comes, everything is loving and tender.

From the field to the forest, the birds manifest themselves, composing the sacred orchestra of this naturá festival.

Everything is peace, everything is affection, in the construction of their nest, the birds sing joyfully the most sonorous song.

Poetry without rhyme enough discourages me and doesn’t give me joy; there is no soap for reading, it seems like a dark night without stars and moons.

The grass in the field does not grow, it does not grow: once this field was so green and so rich, now it is so hot that it even looks like an oven burning angico wood.

At night we notice the eternal graces in the beautiful lanterns of a thousand fireflies. In the canopy of the forest, the branches lull and the flowers exhale soft perfumes.