Ah, Mouraria
Of nightingales in the eaves
Of dresses the colour pink,
Of traditional trading (hawking)
Ah, Mouraria
Of passing processions
Of Severa in the wistful voice
Of the sobbing guitar.
Ah, Mouraria
Of the old Palma Street
Where I once
Let capture my soul
For having passed
At my very side
A certain singer,
Colour brunette,
Small mouth,
and teasing glances!
Ah, Mouraria
Of the man of my dreams
That lied to me
But whom I loved so much!
Love that the wind,
As a lament,
Took with him,
That even more now
All the time
I carry with me.
Ah, Mouraria
Of nightingales in the eaves
Of dresses the colour pink,
Of traditional trading (hawking)
Ah, Mouraria
Of passing processions
Of Severa in the wistful voice
Of the sobbing guitar.