Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.
Amalia, Amalia says.
Amalia, Amalia laughs.
Amalia has a restless soul.
There's smoke in that gig.
Her voice tastes like sour orange
and a lonely rose.
Everybody waits for her to shine,
she seems nervous.
Amidst the shouts of the crowd,
Amalia will sing alone.
Amalia, Amalia says, 'There's a wound to sing about'.
Amalia, Amalia lives for a caress
Amalia, Amalia says, 'I have a wound to sing about'.
Amalia, Amalia laughs, it's pure beauty.
If I was bread to your mouth,
a good reason for me to stay
and the thirst a fountain,
a city of a thousand fountains.
If I was a step that echoes
in every incline of Lisbon,
a downpour on your door,
the shadow that escorts you.
Who writes fate? A word of gold.
Every fatigue is precious,
there's no thorn without a rose.
Yet, I might ask
what it is that you hide in the world.
Under the weave, knit your black shawl.
Amalia, Amalia says, 'I have a wound to sing about'.
Amalia, Amalia lives for a caress
Amalia, Amalia says, 'I have a wound to sing about'.
Amalia, Amalia laughs, it's pure beauty.
It's pure beauty, pure beauty.
And your voice is in the air,
I get ready to listen
to a song that gives life
and hurts the same at the same time.
It talks about sorrows and loves,
about the things I want.
And I like to look at you
the way the earth looks at the sky.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.
Amalia, Amalia says, 'There's a wound to sing about'.
Amalia, Amalia lives for a caress
Amalia, Amalia says, 'I have a wound to sing about'.
Amalia, Amalia laughs, it's pure beauty.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado.
Soul of fado, no sadness.