It was my mother said to me
My voice comes from woman
My voice came from therein, from who gave me birth
Who could explain the singer
Who could understand this voice
Without the voices he carries with him?
Without the voices he's heard
When still an apprentice
How can his voice be an Elis*
Without the angel who listened
To Maria Sapoti*
When would his song flourish then?
Feminine is the gift
That compels him to chant
The song his soul arrests in the air
Feminine is the passion
His musical love
Feminine is the sound of his heart
His minstrel's voice
His people has wed
And the country' streets are his altar
Feminine is the passion
In his musical love
Feminine is the sound of his heart
His minstrel's voice
His people has wed
And the country' streets are his altar
The city is joyous
With the voice of its singer
The city wants to sing along
He'll always remember
The firewood on a stove
The melodies sweeping in from the backyard
The voices he's kept close
The voices he's loved
The voices who taught him thus: it's truly good to sing