For a few years I lived in Itabira.
Mostly, I was born in Itabira.
That is why I'm sad, proud: of iron.
Ninety percent iron on the pavements.
Eighty percent iron in the souls.
And this detachment from what in life is porous and exchange.
The craving for love, which petrifies my work,
derives from Itabira, from its white nights, without women and without horizons.
And the suffering habit, which entertains me so much,
is a sweet Itabiran inheritance.
From Itabira, I brought many gifts to offer you now:
this iron stone, future steel of Brazil;
this statue of Saint Benedict, by the old carver Alfredo Duval;
this tapir leather, spread out on the living room sofa;
this pride, this head down...
I had gold, I had cattle, I had farms.
Today I am a civil servant.
Itabira is only a picture on the wall,
but how it hurts!
Original poem: 'Confidência do Itabirano', by Carlos Drummond de Andrade
In: 'Sentimento do Mundo', 1940