Where are you running like that young girl?
Lost your words on a Brazilian Sunday morning,
you forgot your dream inside the holiday house,
the man outside wants to take you by the hand
and grow children together.

Sunday afternoon in the orange house,
the sand glitters in tune with the childish waves,
you dream, black girl, at the man outside your house,
to live near the yellow flowers and listen to Bossa Nova,
only if the quiet sea will let you make love each night.