This face wrinkled in the mirror is not mine. Nor these tortos and doloridos fingers are mine. I am not that I interrogate myself concerning what I made of wrong. Nor I am these slow and irregular gestures. Everything this that if it shows as if is I simply is not. As many voices are others that I go recognizing to the few. One of them is of my grandmother who cried out for my mother.
Another one is of my mother already with the slipper in the hand. Before these voices it had others that sleep in the esquecimento of the times. Aflitas, lost, sultry voices. Tired voices to the side of the river that ran without stopping. Hands to roll bread and to nail button. This face wrinkled in the mirror is the neighbor of my mother. That one that we saw to leave secretely when went down the night.
This perfume that incendeia to my was given me spirit by the blacks of my grandfather. I more learned with them to be than a face in the mirror. I learned with them to leave itself to lead for the tambores that make my heart to beat. I am all they. I am my grandmother and my mother I am the neighbor, the blacks, the teacher who did not marry. I am the dancer tapeworm of the glassware, the laundrywoman, all the saints and all putas. I am woman!
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