Paroles et traduction Rui Veloso - A invenção do canto

A invenção do canto

Um homem estava sentado à sombra duma azinheira
Quando ouviu na ramagem uma ave cantadeira
Lançada em cantorias sem mensagem sem destino
Ou talvez cantasse ao sol que subia mesmo a pino

O homem era caçador cansado do seu caçar
Tocado pela cantoria deu em querer cantar
Subia a manhã dos tempos e não havia canções
E não havia canções (e não havia canções)
E não havia canções (e não havia canções)

Desde então na azinheira sentou-se o caçador
A ouvir a cantadeira e a sonhar-se cantador
E assim o caçador foi usando a sua clave
Foi abrindo a sua alma e caçou a alma da ave

Levou-a para a caverna estudou-a ao pormenor
E de trinado em trinado descobriu o dó maior
Subia a manhã dos tempos e não havia canções
E não havia canções (e não havia canções)
E não havia canções (e não havia canções) não

Foi monge no seu mosteiro mercador e camponês
Trovador e guerreiro cantou o amor cortês
De gregório até Sinatra tornou-se voz apurada
Da caverna até ao casino fez-se uma ave dourada

Que voa no céu do Scalla e no do Royal Albert Hall
Sobre campos de algodão e urbes de rock and roll
É o meio-dia dos tempos e ainda se inventam canções

E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
Ainda
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)
E ainda se inventam canções (e ainda se inventam canções)

The Invention of Song

A man was sitting in the shade of a holm oak
When he heard a songbird singing in the branches
Singing without message, without purpose
Or perhaps she was singing to the sun that was rising straight up

The man was a hunter, tired of hunting
Touched by the song, he wanted to sing
Dawn was breaking and there were no songs
And there were no songs (and there were no songs)
And there were no songs (and there were no songs)

The hunter sat down under the holm oak
Listening to the songbird and dreaming of becoming a singer
And so he began to use his hunting whistle
He opened his soul and found the soul of the bird

He took it to his cave and studied it closely
And from trill to trill he discovered the C major
Dawn was breaking and there were no songs
And there were no songs (and there were no songs)
And there were no songs (and there were no songs) no

He was a monk in his monastery, a merchant, and a peasant
A troubadour and a warrior, he sang of courtly love
From Gregorian chant to Sinatra, he became a skilled voice
From the cave to the casino he became a golden bird

That flies in the sky of Scalla and the Royal Albert Hall
Over cotton fields and rock and roll cities
It is midday and songs are still being invented

And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And still being invented
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
Still
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)
And songs are still being invented (and songs are still being invented)