Ai, Mouraria

Oh, Mouraria
Where the nightingales on the eaves
In pink dresses
With traditional calls
Oh, Mouraria
Of the processions passing by
Of the severe voice nostalgically
Sobbing on the guitar

Oh, Mouraria
Of the old Palma street
Where one day
I left my soul trapped
Because I saw
Right by my side
A certain fado singer
With dark skin
Small mouth
And mocking gaze

Oh, Mouraria
Of the man of my charm
Who lied to me
But whom I loved so much
Love that the wind
Like a lament
Carried away
More than even now
All the time
I carry with me

Oh, Mouraria
Where the nightingales on the eaves
In pink dresses
With traditional calls
Oh, Mouraria
Of the processions passing by
Of the severe voice nostalgically
Sobbing on the guitar