Forgive me, learned men, aesthetes,
Poetic spirits, gentle souls,
For the falsity of my genius and
My words
What is the scholarship that I sing,
What is life, wonder,
What is beauty, grace,
But I just aspire to the art
Of planting potatoes.
Forgive me for every little thing,
but there is nobody here who sings fado.
If you came to hear Deolinda,
You came to the wrong place.
We are in a house next door.
We all went to a house next door to us.
I know well that there are writerly trowels,
Literary plasterers and hard-working poets
And poets who are true masons
Of letters,
And they sing in genuine art, the humble fisherman
The modest seller of fish
And so the singer should devote herself to fishing.
Forgive me for every little thing,
But there is nobody here who sings fado.
If you came to hear Deolinda,
You came to the wrong place.
We are in a house next door.
We all went to a house next door to us.
Why not do what I like,
I sing with disgust the fact that
I am here
And somewhere I know someone unsuitable
Takes my place.
No one is happy with what he has
And there is always someone coming and they
Are as good as us;
But that someone is usually not
Who they should be.
Forgive me for every little thing,
but there is nobody here who sings fado.
If you came to hear Deolinda,
You came to the wrong place.
We are in a house next door.
We all went to a house next door to us.
And it is the change I propose;
It is not a fearful step
In dark utopias,
It is as simple as changing
a radio station...
I propose that they change with you and
Put their lives right.