Don't take a dislake to the singer, you all,
When the throat clogs and the voice cracks
And the lamentation is not so moving
Nor if the singer always departs
Without confessing to his guitar
When the dark hour of his bitterness comes:
So the singer does not feel the cross so heavy to be borne
Along the path of misfortune
I alone understand what the fado is,
Saddened by the people:
It's to sob softly at night,
Getting to the heart through a sorrowful tune
As cold as the snow on the way outside
Lamenting the loneliness or singing of the anxiety
Of the one who has cried for love.
People will say that all of this is part of life, that it is natural
But this is of Lisbon
And this is what the fado is.
I can hear guitarras vibring and voices singing in the shady street
The lights are getting off, harbingers of the day coming already
I close my window quietly, and in the alley you can already hear
Sweet noises
Morning rises fresh and calm
Inside my soul only it is still dark night.
I alone understand what the fado is,
Saddened by the people:
It's to sob softly at night,
Getting to the heart through a sorrowful tune
As cold as the snow on the way outside
Lamenting the loneliness or singing of the anxiety
Of the one who has cried for love.
People will say that all of this is part of life, that it is natural
But this is of Lisbon
And this is what the fado is.