Song | Loucura |
Artist | Mariza |
Album | Concerto em Lisboa |
作曲 : De Brito, Sousa | |
Sou do fado | |
Como sei | |
Vivo um poema cantado | |
De um fado que eu inventei | |
A falar | |
Não posso dar-me | |
Mas ponho a alma a cantar | |
E as almas sabem escutar-me | |
Chorai, chorai | |
Poetas do meu país | |
Troncos da mesma raíz | |
Da vida que nos juntou | |
E se vocês | |
não estivessem a meu lado | |
Então não havia fado | |
Nem fadistas como eu sou | |
Esta voz | |
tão dolorida | |
É culpa de todos vós | |
Poetas da minha vida | |
É loucura, | |
ouço dizer | |
Mas bendita esta loucura | |
de cantar e de sofrer | |
Chorai, chorai | |
Poetas do meu país | |
Troncos da mesma raíz | |
Da vida que nos juntou | |
E se vocês | |
não estivessem a meu lado | |
Então não havia fado | |
Nem fadistas como eu sou | |
Craziness | |
I’m of Fado! How I know! | |
I live a (singing) poem, of a fado that I made up. | |
Speaking, I can’t expose myself | |
but I make my soul sing, and the souls know how to listen to me | |
cry, cry, poets of my country | |
trunks of the same root, of the life that put us together | |
And if you weren’t by my side, then fado wouldn’t exist | |
nor fadistas* as I am! | |
This voice, so hurtful, it’s all your fault | |
Poets of my life. | |
It’s craziness! I hear them say, but blessed this craziness, of singing and suffering. | |
cry, cry, poets of my country | |
trunks of the same root, of the life that put us together | |
And if you weren’t by my side, then fado wouldn’t exist | |
nor fadistas* as I am! | |
Jestem z Fado! | |
Skąd wiem? | |
Życie wierszy śpiewanych | |
W Fado zapisanych. | |
Mówią, że | |
Nic nie mogą dać, | |
Moja dusza śpiewa | |
I inne mogą słuchać. | |
To płacz, to płacz | |
poetów mojego kraju, | |
Pnie życia z korzeni, | |
które nas tu trzymają | |
A jeśli to | |
nie były życia strony złe | |
To nie byłoby też fado | |
I pieśniarzy* tak jak ja. | |
Ach ten głos. | |
Taki bolesny. | |
To wina tych wszystkich | |
poetów życia mego. | |
Jest szaleństwo. | |
I słyszę je. | |
Szaleństwo błogosławione. | |
To życie jest i śpiew. | |
To płacz, to płacz | |
poetów mojego kraju, | |
Pnie życia z korzeni, | |
które nas tu trzymają | |
A jeśli to | |
nie były życia strony złe | |
To nie byłoby też fado | |
I pieśniarzy* tak jak ja. |
zuò qǔ : De Brito, Sousa | |
Sou do fado | |
Como sei | |
Vivo um poema cantado | |
De um fado que eu inventei | |
A falar | |
N o posso darme | |
Mas ponho a alma a cantar | |
E as almas sabem escutarme | |
Chorai, chorai | |
Poetas do meu paí s | |
Troncos da mesma raí z | |
Da vida que nos juntou | |
E se voc s | |
n o estivessem a meu lado | |
Ent o n o havia fado | |
Nem fadistas como eu sou | |
Esta voz | |
t o dolorida | |
É culpa de todos vó s | |
Poetas da minha vida | |
É loucura, | |
ou o dizer | |
Mas bendita esta loucura | |
de cantar e de sofrer | |
Chorai, chorai | |
Poetas do meu paí s | |
Troncos da mesma raí z | |
Da vida que nos juntou | |
E se voc s | |
n o estivessem a meu lado | |
Ent o n o havia fado | |
Nem fadistas como eu sou | |
Craziness | |
I' m of Fado! How I know! | |
I live a singing poem, of a fado that I made up. | |
Speaking, I can' t expose myself | |
but I make my soul sing, and the souls know how to listen to me | |
cry, cry, poets of my country | |
trunks of the same root, of the life that put us together | |
And if you weren' t by my side, then fado wouldn' t exist | |
nor fadistas as I am! | |
This voice, so hurtful, it' s all your fault | |
Poets of my life. | |
It' s craziness! I hear them say, but blessed this craziness, of singing and suffering. | |
cry, cry, poets of my country | |
trunks of the same root, of the life that put us together | |
And if you weren' t by my side, then fado wouldn' t exist | |
nor fadistas as I am! | |
Jestem z Fado! | |
Sk d wiem? | |
ycie wierszy piewanych | |
W Fado zapisanych. | |
Mó wi, e | |
Nic nie mog da, | |
Moja dusza piewa | |
I inne mog s ucha. | |
To p acz, to p acz | |
poetó w mojego kraju, | |
Pnie ycia z korzeni, | |
któ re nas tu trzymaj | |
A je li to | |
nie by y ycia strony z e | |
To nie by oby te fado | |
I pie niarzy tak jak ja. | |
Ach ten g os. | |
Taki bolesny. | |
To wina tych wszystkich | |
poetó w ycia mego. | |
Jest szale stwo. | |
I s ysz je. | |
Szale stwo b ogos awione. | |
To ycie jest i piew. | |
To p acz, to p acz | |
poetó w mojego kraju, | |
Pnie ycia z korzeni, | |
któ re nas tu trzymaj | |
A je li to | |
nie by y ycia strony z e | |
To nie by oby te fado | |
I pie niarzy tak jak ja. |