Portuguese language

Last flower of Latium, uncultivated and beautiful,

You are, at the same time, splendor and grave:

Native gold, which in impure denim

The rough mine between the gravel sails...

I love you like this, unknown and obscure,

Loud tuba, simple lyre,

That you have the thunder and the hiss of the storm

And the rush of longing and tenderness!

I love your wild freshness and your aroma

Of virgin jungles and wide oceans!

I love you, oh rude and painful language,

In that maternal voice I heard: “my son!”

And when Camões cried, in bitter exile,

The genius without luck and the love without shine!