Schengen plays out like a dusty road movie packed into three poetic minutes. Our wandering narrator leaves “one end of the world,” trudging through clouds of dirt, listening to the wind and rain, and repeating “Je voulais juste marcher tout droit” – “I only wanted to walk straight ahead.” He represents every migrant who trusts in open borders, yet even inside Europe’s famous free-movement zone, he is told his skin is not welcome. The question “Ce que j’fais là, moi, je sais pas” (“I don’t know what I’m doing here”) captures that mix of confusion, fatigue, and stubborn hope.
Raphael turns this personal journey into a protest anthem. Instead of weapons or grand sporting events, the traveler carries nothing but an old barrel organ and the promise to let his art “rot their country,” a cheeky way of saying that music can outlast any wall. By contrasting humble images with symbols of power, the song argues that identity, dignity, and love are stronger than borders. In short, Schengen is both a lament for the excluded and a fierce celebration of resilience — a reminder that the will to keep walking is sometimes the most radical act of all.