At the wheel of the Chevrolet on the road to Sintra
Under moonlight and dream, on the deserted road,
I drive alone, slow and easy, and it seems to me
A bit - or I make myself think it so a bit -
That I am following some other road, some other dream,
some other world,
I'm going on, not with Lisbon there behind or Sintra
ahead,
I'm going on, and what more is there to it than not
stopping, just going on?