Rita, washerwoman. I wash the clothes of the priest, the store and whoever pays, at the riverside, where the water runs clean. Clothes tell the life of whoever wears them: I know who sweated, who cried and who ate too much. Yours I wash for free the first week. After that it's flour or coin.
Sá Rita
The great river, up north, I don't wash in. The water is pretty, but the clothes come out heavy and smelling of rust. There's something in that water that isn't earth. I wash in the creek, which belongs to Oxum.
Sá Rita
A bit of small talk · Sá Rita
Rita, washerwoman. I wash the clothes of the priest, the store and whoever pays, at the riverside, where the water runs clean.
Clothes tell the life of whoever wears them: I know who sweated, who cried and who ate too much.
Yours I wash for free the first week. After that it's flour or coin.
The great river, up north, I don't wash in. The water is pretty, but the clothes come out heavy and smelling of rust.
There's something in that water that isn't earth. I wash in the creek, which belongs to Oxum.
When I wash I sing, and singing I remember. My grandmother sang in a language nobody knows anymore.
If you ever hear me singing low, don't come near. It's a conversation with those who are gone.
