Brazos pra seitura

The wind of emigration
destroyed our land,
the old ones lie down,
the children cry.
Fifty years ago,
today not even twenty,
the harvest month arrives
who will harvest?
Fifteen in Switzerland,
twelve beyond the sea,
three in the south of France
who will harvest?
Twenty-two remaining
ten to work,
seven of them children
who will harvest?
Three old ones waiting
till death arrives,
with their bodies worn out
who will harvest?
Men and women,
we must sow
our truth,
fight for it.
Let's close the doors,
so they don't escape anymore,
for if they all leave
who will harvest?