Fado Tropical

Oh, muse of my fado
Oh, my gentle mother
I leave you dismayed
On the first of April

But do not be so ungrateful!
Do not forget who loved you
And in your dense forest
Got lost and found
Ah, this land will still fulfill its ideal
It will still become a vast Portugal!

You know, deep down I am a sentimental. All of us inherit in our Lusitanian blood a good dose of lyricism (besides syphilis, of course). Even when my hands are busy torturing, strangling, slaughtering, my heart closes its eyes and sincerely weeps.

With ferns in the scrubland
Rosemary in the sugarcane field
Liqueurs in the water jug
A tropical wine
And the beautiful mulatto
With lace from Alentejo
From whom in a bravado
I snatch a kiss
Ah, this land will still fulfill its ideal
It will still become a vast Portugal!

My heart has a serene way
And my hands the hard and swift blow
In such a way that, after done
Disoriented, I contest myself

If I keep my hands far from my chest
It's because there's a distance between intention and gesture
And if I hold my heart in my hands tightly
I'm haunted by the sudden impression of incest

When I find myself in the heat of battle
I display the sharp sword at the bow
But my chest unbuttons

And if the sentence is announced harshly
More than quickly the blind hand executes
For if not, the heart forgives

Guitars and accordions
Jasmines, coconut trees, fountains
Sardines, cassava
In a soft tile
And the Amazon River
That runs behind the mountains
And in a tidal bore
Flows into the Tagus
Ah, this land will still fulfill its ideal
It will still become a colonial empire!
Ah, this land will still fulfill its ideal
It will still become a colonial empire!