Ai Mouraria

Oh Mouraria
From the old street of Palma
Where one day
I left my soul trapped

Because I passed right by me
A certain fado singer
With dark skin, small mouth, mocking look

Oh Mouraria
Of the man of my charm
Who lied
But whom I loved so much

Love that the wind
Like a lament
Carried away

But that even now
And at all times
I carry with me

Oh Mouraria
Of the nightingales on the eaves
Of the pink dresses
Of the traditional cries

Oh Mouraria
Of the processions passing by
Of Severa in a nostalgic voice
Of the guitar sobbing

Oh Mouraria
Of the processions passing by
Of Severa in a nostalgic voice
Of the guitar sobbing