There are, of course, so many gaps that become very easily "lost in translation" when you attempt to give them any sense—in a foreign language. Lines can regain such natural vigor or roundness; the breath of each syllable—after every single word-by-word they, the phonemes, give rise to in the "new translated-into-new-winds" discourse-river—being imbued with a flourish tune or coming to its dramatic point; the lines, and the degree of their ease or disease, as if shaping the rhymes and rhythms and even the variants of the mainstream language, and its fluidity, or authority, or simply speechless behind-the-lines… The cadence, its decadence… It's truly an adventurous slog-hike to translate, and even more to translate poetry, lyrics, poetry. There's much to be "lost in translation," says, for instance, Eva Hoffman. Appreciated and agreed on my part. I even dare to append, "there's a 'myriad of much' to forgo and sacrifice when you translate, especially poetry-lyrics. The rhymes?, a labyrinth in cadence(s)?, impeccable rhythms?, the significance(s)?, what's more?, what for? I apologize in advance for this extremely unpretentious attempt of mine at translating into English that splendid Brazilian poem-lyrics, written in 1954 by Monsueto, a samba-composer from Rio de Janeiro. This version I bring you herein was arranged and produced by the giant Jards Macalé, and recorded in 1972 by Caetano Veloso during his exile in London, England, shortly before his return to Brazil. In sum, if it is somewhat impossible, as you know, to not "sacrifice" this or that, here the rhythm and the percussion cadence for both the lyrics and the musical harmony claimed to be preserved. So they were—I tried to, wish and hope so. Something extraordinary, dazzling, and beautiful—yes, it is, this song! Excellent listening and "fluting-with" and drinking and dancing-with—it…for you all! Tim-tim!