A Última Flor do Lacio

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

I love you like this, unknown and obscure
Trumpet of high clangor, simple lyre
That has the trumpet 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 brightness