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            Gonçalves Dias 
                           
                                             
                                                                        
                                                                        
                                                                        
                                                                        
     
            The song of exile 
             
            — traslate Nelson Ascher —  
             
  
              
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                 Kennst du das Land, wo die 
                Citronen blühen,  
                Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glühen?  
                Kennst du es wohl? — Dahin, dahin!  
                Möchtl ich... ziehn. *  
                Goethe  | 
               
             
                                                                        
                                                                        
                                                                        
                                                                        
     
  My homeland has 
            many palm-trees  
            and the thrush-song fills its air;  
            no bird here can sing as well  
            as the birds sing over there.  
 We have fields more full of flowers
             
            and a starrier sky above,  
            we have woods more full of life  
            and a life more full of love.  
             
             
            Lonely night-time meditations  
            please me more when I am there;  
            my homeland has many palm-trees  
            and the thrush-song fills its air.  
             
             
            Such delights as my land offers  
            Are not found here nor elsewhere;  
            lonely night-time meditations  
            please me more when I am there;  
            My homeland has many palm-trees  
            and the thrush-song fills its air.  
             
             
            Don't allow me, God, to die  
            without getting back to where  
            I belong, without enjoying  
            the delights found only there,  
            without seeing all those palm-trees,  
            hearing thrush-songs fill the air.  
            Em Português
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