The mornings of the streets of Congonhas do Campo city seem to exhale the poetic baroque smell, its history in verse and prose, they breathe, perspire their secrets in the corners of their old houses. The houses, they tell us their fascinating stories, reappearing a vision, a mirage amid the dense morning fog with essences and sounds like an exciting trip back in time, a pilgrimage of living that blend to a pilgrimage of the dead. And anonymous historical figures mingle with contemporary bumping up and seeding fallacies and stories from their green mountains and heavenly waterfalls.

The wood burning stove with a fuming mouth, preparing hearty breakfast making us go back to a fabulous and nebulous eighteenth century city, narrating the song of slaves in the toil of everyday life, fulfilling their destiny under the lash of the greedy of the white man for gold of their lands. It is history, it is the flavor of coffee, it is the stone paths, the art work of their people, and it is in brunette skins of that ordinary people, deep inside.

When people ask me why I talk so passionately about the cities of Minas Gerais, I answer: I feel the smell of my memories, and they mix to cities of Minas Gerais, it is under my skin, in my culture, a latent poetry enlightens me and makes me live. I breathe the dawns of Minas Gerais….♥