A Gaivota
Amália Hoje
The Seagull
If a seagull were to come,
Bringing me the sky of Lisbon,
In the drawing it would make.
In that sky where the gaze,
Is a wing that doesn't fly,
It weakens and falls into the sea.
What a perfect heart,
Would beat in my chest,
My love in your hand,
In that hand where it fit,
Perfect my heart.
If a Portuguese sailor,
A wanderer of the seven seas,
Were perhaps the first.
To tell me whatever he invented,
If a new sparkle in my gaze,
Were to intertwine in my look.
What a perfect heart,
Would die in my chest,
My love in your hand,
In that hand where perfectly,
Beat my heart.
What a perfect heart,
Would beat in my chest,
My love in your hand,
In that hand where it fit,
Perfect my heart.
What a perfect heart,
Would beat in my chest,
My love in your hand,
In that hand where it fit,
Perfect my heart.
Perfect my heart.
Perfect my heart.
