My love, but destiny
Does not beg and make small ears
To what I swore to . . .
Here I need to confess:
"It was merely destiny
Which is cruel and small
And wanted to come to separate us!"
Ah, sadness!
They can already see here the promise broken
And this voice sings to the point of pain:
"Without Fado nor love, what remains? . . . !"
The Fado is not bad,
It is not a crime or a defect
It is a tangle of strings
Which entangles the chest
And needs to be untied.
You run the risk of suffocation
When you carry the Fado in the voice
And go there with those of us
To tighten in the throat.
He who sings it is richer;
Poor who gives them prisons.
You and I are not two!
My love, you need to think
That this is to take or to leave!
These are the conditions:
You and I and the songs!
A chest that sings the Fado
Always has two hearts!