• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 02
Image by


I met an Indian
who lived days of solitude.
Nights crowned with stars.
Feet bathed in the pure water of streams.

There, in that isolated forest
sang next to his thatched hut
of clay and carnauba stands.
Human voice and bamboo flute
in chorus with the birds.

There was no such melancholy that had
the people's suffering
under concrete arches.
Men far from each other, away from the nature,
in stubborn pursuit of fame, goods and gold.

In the cold nights of that hinterland
he was the companion of himself
and of the flames of a bonfire.

For this forest man
with enough wealth that money does not buy.
He was lord of his universe,
wakeful guardian of the sacred legacy
of their ancestors.



Friend of life, hero of history.
Noble memory, tribe narratives.
Dignitary of wisdom written in the heart,
lived in the simple, full day to day,
vast as the horizons.

I met an Indian,
paradigm of survivors,
in the radical challenge of preserving
the soul, the greatest, the only treasure!