Los Vendimiadores

Around September, before the cold sets in,
they buy their ticket for the train of hope.
And we've seen them walk away, bags in tow,
trudging down the platform at the France station...
Maybe they have four lost logs in a field.
Maybe they don't even have a patch of land.
Maybe they don't have a town, and from the orchards of the Segre,
they go to pick cotton or prune,
and when there's nothing left, they work as laborers.
They're folks from Aragón, Africa, and the South,
the grape harvesters.
Others head to different lands,
leaving behind a dry, rocky plot their father left them.
A plot where day by day they gave their all,
where they grew old before their time...
A piece of sausage, a crust of bread,
and a swig of wine will make their journey shorter.
Each one hides a dream, each has an accent,
but all these people speak the same language.
The language of the laborer.
Simple, tough, and to the grind,
of the grape harvesters.
And from the moment the sun rises until it hides behind the peak,
they cut and cut grapes from vines that aren't theirs.
And at night they gather to curse their fate,
with the straw of the pillow rubbing against their cheek.
And in the winter, heading home with a few coins,
that must give them what the father's land doesn't.
Until next year when they return,
bags in tow, to walk down the platform at the France station.
They're folks from Aragón, Africa, and the South,
the grape harvesters.