When night falls over Lisbon
like a sailboat without sails
All of Alfama seems like
a house without windows
Where people cool down
It's in a loft,
In the space stolen from hurt,
that Alfama remains closed
Within four walls of water
Four walls of wailing
Four walls of anxiety
That at night do the singing
That lights itself up in the city
Closed in her disenchantment
Alfama smells of nostalgia
Alfama doesn't smell of Fado
Smells like people, like loneliness
Like a silent hurting
Tastes like bread with sadness
Alfama doesn't smell of Fado
But it has no other song.
