O Que Será (À Flor da Pele) (part. Milton Nascimento)

What is it that comes over me?
That stirs me from within, what could it be?
That sprouts right through my skin, what could it be?
And that rises to my cheeks and makes me blush
And that leaps into my eyes, betraying me
And that tightens my chest, makes me confess
What can no longer be disguised
And that no one even has the right to refuse
And that makes me a beggar, makes me plead
For what has no measure, nor ever will
For what there is no remedy, nor ever will
For what there is no prescription

What could this possibly be?
That blooms from within us, though it ought not to
That is contemptuous of us, in contumacy
That is like a brandy that never satisfies
That is like an illness born from a carnival
That not even ten commandments can reconcile
Nor all the cursing spells and all of alchemy
Nor all the ointments will soothe
And not even all the saints, what, what is it?
That knows no rest, and never will
That knows no fatigue, and never will
That knows no limits

What is it that comes over me?
That burns me from within, what could it be?
That disturbs my sleep, what could it be?
That all the tremors come to shake me
That all the burning passions come to arouse me
That all the sweats come to drench me
That which all my nerves are pleading for
That which all my organs are clamoring for
And a hideous torment makes me implore
For what has no shame, nor ever will
For what cannot be governed, nor ever will
For what has no sense