Língua Portuguesa

Last flower of Lácio, uncultivated and beautiful
You are, at once, splendor and tomb
Native gold, which in impure ore
The rough mine among the gravel hides

I love you like this, unknown and obscure
Trumpet of high clangor, simple lyre
That has the tone and the whistle of the storm
And the murmur of longing and tenderness

I love your wild vigor and your scent
Of virgin forests and wide ocean
I love you, oh rough and painful language

In which from the maternal voice I heard: My child
And in which Camões wept, in bitter exile
The unfortunate genius and love without shine