Imagine feeling a scream trapped in your throat while the whole city holds its breath. That is the tension running through “Cálice,” a 1973 anthem by Chico Buarque with Milton Nascimento. The very title is a clever play on words: cálice means “chalice,” but it sounds like cale-se (shut up). Over a hypnotic melody, the singers beg, “Pai, afasta de mim esse cálice” – “Father, take this cup away from me,” echoing Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. Yet the “cup” here is filled with vinho tinto de sangue – red wine and blood – the bitterness of living under Brazil’s military dictatorship. Each verse paints snapshots of censorship, poverty, and everyday fear, where even silence feels deafening and the urge to shout becomes “um grito desumano,” an inhuman cry for freedom.
The song moves from spiritual plea to rebellious declaration. We hear metaphors of blunt knives, overfed pigs, and monsters lurking in the stands, all hinting at a corrupt regime grown unwieldy. By the end, Chico flips the prayer on its head: he wants to invent his own sin, drink his own poison, and dissolve every imposed rule. “Cálice” is therefore both lament and protest, a coded message that slipped past censors to rally listeners. More than a historical artifact, it teaches us how language, pun, and melody can smuggle hope when shouting is forbidden – proving that music itself can be the loudest voice in a silent city.