On the backs of the mountains
In little wiggly houses
Their life and their samba live
The children, men and women
Which will in the mud swim

The mud that runs down so strong
And that stops by luck alone
For the absence of a wall
Against the water’s pure storm

Those of them who survive will
Because of the brown flood scream

And all that will then changed be
Are over 800 bricks
Of cement red so vainly.