Um papo reto com João que, distraído, nada nunca ouviu / A straight talk with João who, distracted, never saw it coming

Eu bem que te falei, João, que o olhar de esgueira que te lançavam era pro teu ser se inexistir, era pra tua pessoa minguar até deixar de ser pessoa de sentimento inteiro. Porque pra eles teu ser valia mesmo só pro trabalho mais duro que nenhum deles labuta. Eu também te avisei, João, que iriam bater com a porta na tua cara, uma, duas, três, um montão de vezes, e que só te restaria arrombar a última porta antes de morrer de frio na calçada. E agora, aqui, te convoco pra te dizer que a borracha que voou nas tuas costas, que a humilhação com que vestiram a tua pele preta e que a bala que varou a tua cabeça abriram um vazio tão grande na gente, tão sem juízo de tudo, João, que só restou pro teu povo gritar até arrebentar os’pulmão de raiva: “vai ter volta, burguesada!”

Humberto Foz

I told you, João, that the sneaky looks they threw at you were for your being didn't even exist, it was for your being to wane until you stopped being a person of whole feeling. Because for them your being was worth only for the hardest work that none of them wanted do to. I also warned you, John, that they would slam the door in your face, once, twice, three times, a lot of times, and that you would only have to break down the last door before dying of cold on the sidewalk. And now, here, I summon you to tell you that the rubber that flew behind your back, the humiliation with which they dressed your black skin, and the bullet that hit your head have opened a void so big inside us, for so senseless it was, João, that all that's left for your people to do is to shout until their lungs burst with rage: "There's going to be a comeback, bourgeoisie!"

Humberto Foz