Viola, Minha Viola

Fiddle, my fiddle
Black wooden easel
I run with you in my arms
On my knees, I promise
Fiddle, my fiddle
Made of rosewood and cinnamon
In joy or in sadness
I live embraced by it
My well-lived fiddle
I make a living with it

In the Last Supper painting
There are twelve apostles
The fiddle is not holy
But it also has twelve strings
The year has twelve months
The day has twelve hours
The night has twelve hours
And this night is joyful
This divine fiddle
Has already given me what I wanted

I didn't learn to make war
In the singing school
Making war is very easy
I want to see making poetry
With this divine fiddle
I will make a request
For God to kill death
So the singer doesn't die
As long as there is a fiddle
The singer must live

Until the year 2000
If only one fiddle exists
I guarantee it will be mine
I won't stop playing
A singer without a fiddle
Has nothing in his career
This divine fiddle
Was made by God's hands
Whoever doesn't like the fiddle
Doesn't like God either