The longing for a place,
the breeze of a song,
legends to be heard,
thousand verses to be rhymed.
One soul, one emotion,
one nation, one troubadour,
April turns into a song.
Coimbra is a dream,
Lisbon - my town,
Porto is a night of fiesta
Fado is the mourning
of people singing it.
I like April in Portugal.
I remember that place,
the night in your glances.
I used to feel your love,
without any words.
The longing, when I sing,
gets me closer, more and more,
to that April in Portugal.
One soul, one emotion,
one nation, one troubadour,
April turns into a song.
Coimbra is a dream,
Lisbon - my town,
Porto is a night of fiesta
Fado is the mourning
of people singing it.
I like April in Portugal.
I remember that place,
the night in your glances.
I used to feel your love,
without any words.
The longing, when I sing,
gets me closer, more and more,
to that April in Portugal.