Sing, O Muse, of the unquenchable sorrow and burning fury gripping the noble sons of Lusus, whose sacred cradle has been torn from their embrace. The land of Portugal, carved by the bronze of foundational kings and consecrated in the blood of martyrs, now groans under the oppressor’s boot. How bitter is this grief, a darkness thicker than the winter mist rolling off the Atlantic! A suffocating rage, fierce as an untamed tempest, devours our chests as foreign banners defile the hills of Sintra and the golden banks of the Tagus. The river itself, once the majestic gateway to global empires, now weeps brine into the sea, mourning a kingdom stolen by treachery and blade. We stand paralyzed, our hearts shattered like glass against the rocks of cruel destiny. It is a sadness deeper than Neptune's darkest depths, a crushing weight that suffocates the soul. To see the soil we plowed with sweat and defended with bone reduced to plundered valleys breeds a monstrous anger.
Yet, though this fury bides its time in the shadows of exile, let the conquerors not deceive themselves; they have captured only the cage, never the spirit of the lion. Turn your eyes back, O world, to when the universe trembled at our name! We are the wave-taming race that cast off fear to map the infinite blue. While the rest of humanity clung trembling to the coast, our caravels split the monstrous throat of the ocean. We confronted the titan Adamastor at the world's edge and forced the tempests to bow to our command. We hailed the rising sun in the East and laid sovereign claim upon the uncharted horizons of the West. Under the standard of the Quinas, our ancestors conquered empires of spice and gold, rewriting the Earth's geography with iron will and celestial vision. The blood of Afonso the Conqueror and the daring soul of Vasco da Gama do not evaporate into dust; they run vibrant through our veins, an inheritance of triumph so colossal that Olympus looked down in breathless wonder.
Fueled by this eternal inheritance, hear now our decree, O enemies who feast in our ruined palaces and mock our tears! Mistake not our mourning for submission, nor our quietude for death. We are a people forged in war, destined by the Fates for eternal glory. Though ashes choke our cities and blood drenches our fields, the immortal spark of Lusitania cannot be quenched. From the smoldering embers of tragedy, we already gather the lightning. We shall rise! We will forge our despair into impenetrable armor, and our rage into a catastrophic scythe to break your empires and force you to your knees. Tremble, conquerors, for the dawn of reckoning approaches. We will march, we will conquer, and we will reclaim every grain of our birthright, raising Portugal from the dust to absolute dominion. Forever unbreakable, forever supreme!