Black Bandits

By Castro Alves

Let the earth tremble, terrified with fright…
My fast mare, disheveled,
Black, dark, flew through the caves.
Let the sky tremble… oh ruin! oh disgrace!
Because the Black bandit is the one who passes,
Because the Black bandit shouted:

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

Lightning sleeps in the black storm…
We are Black… the lightning ferments
In these chests covered in horror.
Launch the cry of the free cohort,
Launch, oh wind, deathly pampeiro,
This iron glove at the lord.

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

Onward! oh race that never trembles!
For the warrior, a tent of shadows
Night sets up in the vast expanse.
Onward! swarm from the four horizons,
Come out of the vast crater of the mountains,
Where the condor leaps, the volcano.

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

And the lord who sings at the feast
Stops the arm that raises the cup,
Crowned with blue flowers.
And murmurs, thinking he is in dreams:
“What demons are these, dreadful,
Who pass there, hungry and naked?”

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

It is us, my lord, but do not tremble,
We broke our chains
To demand your wives or mothers.
This one is the son of the elder you killed.
This one — brother of the woman you defiled…
Oh! do not tremble, lord, we are your dogs.

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

We are your dogs, who are cold and hungry,
Whom thirst consumes for ten centuries…
We want a vast, ferocious banquet…
Bring the cloak to cover our shoulders.
For you was made the purple of royalty,
A cloak of blood was made for us.

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

My African lions, be alert!
Night keeps watch… the plain is deserted.
When the moon hides its light
Let the cry of life be torn out
In the banquet of death, served
Beside the crow, its mournful brother.

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

Let the valley tremble, the steep cliff,
Let the sky tremble, heavy with thunder,
At the passing of the blast of heroes,
Who on fatal, disheveled mares
Go brandishing those white swords
Sharpened on the tombs of their ancestors.

Fall, dew of the slave’s blood,
Fall, dew, on the face of the executioner.
Grow, grow, red field,
Grow, grow, fierce vengeance.

Castro Alves was one of the most famous Brazilian abolitionist and republican poets of the 19^th century. in the words of Joaquim Nabuco, he was “the greatest Brazilian poet, lyric and epic.”