A música era esta

ben harper | i'll rise

you may write me down in history

with your bitter twisted lies

you may trod me down in the very dirt

and still like the dust i'll rise

does my happiness upset you

why are you best with gloom

cause i laugh like i've got an oil well

pumpin' in my living room

so you may shoot me with your words

you may cut me with your eyes

and i'll rise

i'll rise

i'll rise 

out of the shacks of history's shame

up from a past rooted in pain

i'll rise

now did you want to see me broken

bowed head and lowered eyes

shoulders fallen down like tear drops

weakened by my soulful cries

does my confidence upset you

don't you take it awful hard

cause i walk like i've got a diamond mine

breakin up in my front yard

so you may shoot me with your words

you may cut me with your eyes

and i'll rise

out of the shacks of history's shame

up from a past rooted in pain

i'll rise

i'll rise

i'll rise

Não é fácil resistir a tudo

o que nos roubam.

Tempo, memória, mundo.

Toleramos o insuportável

com insuportáveis venenos.

Até melhor ordem, se houver.

Noutras casas (lembro-me)

éramos mais, bebíamos

apressadamente a juventude.

Mas a vida - chamemos-lhe

assim - separa os que se juntam,

gosta de abismos fáceis.

Ao quinto ou sexto gin,

(lembras-te?) deitávamo-nos

a sorrir para as estrelas,

sobre o pano gasto do bilhar.

A música era esta.

Perdemos quase tudo.

Manuel de Freitas