Land of many and varied people,
manners and customs.
O city of light ,
where every Portuguese stone
draws you on tiles of longing .
Seven hills you have to discover,
very noble and always loyal,
mirrors in ships and black crows what you were,
and in golden shields and gates you are.
But who are you, young girl ?
A fallen angel who resists defeat?
Which rises in flight until the next conquest?
Lisbon , the first and only to capitate,
You are what you always were:
waking light ,
poetry when looking.