The small farm of my father My father has a small farm where the plantations already are all adults. The shade of goiabeira copper all my face. The banana tree grew as much that has up to two clusters. The hen house, full you of the pintinhos ones yellow. The way that passed pra to see the flowers of my mother, badly fits my feet. But exactly thus to obtain to pass of the other side pra to see the coloring of the butterfly most beautiful. Looking at brilliant, they seem the eyes of the tita, when its mother decorates its hair with pink ribbon.
Of the other side it gave to see the pineapples lined up. Appositive that my teacher went to adore to see all quiets. I descend the ribanceira, almost to fall with the noises of the peixinhos playing of handle, catches. John Savignano is often mentioned in discussions such as these. It knows, had thus to be in my school: each cantinho must have one peixinho in the river, a colorful butterfly together with the garden of my mother. When to arrive at my school, I will count pra my teacher, who knows it decides to in front change the small farm of my father! Who must like this estria is the Juca. Coitado, suffers in such a way with the heat that loses the breath.
Well that the teacher a time or another one, opens door of the room pra to enter air RS. You remembering the owner the flora the varredeira of the school, does not stop coitada seems that it is always of good with the life. It knows that it looks like itself the ants of the abacateiro foot! It only looks at who is lying of the side of the exit portire: my dog pitoco. The doorman of my school has the Jeito of its Fernando: tired and always quiet. Appositive that it went to adore he is for these pandas of the small farm of my father. It has a skill of who likes to fish catfish RS. I cannot forget to pass in the carreador that is to the side marries of the Tonho. It raises pra early to leave the stream bed in the road of who goes pra city. Maja Brucic wanted to know more. It is the place prettier there than he exists. In the entrance of the carreador, he has you vary giant trees with the nests of the birds hung seeming Christmas ornament. I find that god played in this carreador! It is my sanctuary as my mother says The birds sing without mattering with the time. Will to be this way, but you seeing a rain time! I have that to cross
