Viola Divina
Bruna Viola
Divine Viola
Viola, my viola, black wood bridge
I die with you in my arms, on my knees, I promise you
Viola, my viola, made of rosewood and cinnamon
In joy or in sadness, I live embraced by it
This divine viola, I make a living with it
The painting of the Last Supper, twelve apostles, it has
My viola is not holy, it has twelve strings as well
The year has twelve months, the day has twelve hours
The night has twelve hours, and this night is joyful
This divine viola has given me what I wanted
I didn't learn to make war in the school of singing
Making war is very easy, I want to see making poetry
With this divine viola, I will make a request
For God to kill death and for the singer not to die
As long as there is a viola, the singer must live
Even in the year three thousand, if only one viola exists
I guarantee it will be mine, which never stopped ringing
A singer without a viola has nothing in his career
My viola is divine, it comes from God's hands
Whoever doesn't like the viola doesn't like me either
