Le Portugais
Melina Mercouri
The Portuguese
With his jackhammer
He digs the furrow of the road of tomorrow
He puts his heart into it
The sun and the frost are written on his hands
The Portuguese in his bright red raincoat
That looks like a scarecrow
Have you seen the strange plower of the concrete prairies
And the fields of rocky ground
You have to make journeys
You have to make your way
It's no longer in his village
That one can earn his bread
Far from his roof, from his city
500 leagues to the north
In the evening in a shantytown
The Portuguese falls asleep
He arrived at Austerlitz station
Two years ago already
He has only one idea: to earn a lot of money
And go back there
The Portuguese in his bright red raincoat
That looks like a scarecrow
He doesn't see you
He is on the road that leads to Portugal
