Over there beyond the village,
stands a hurdy-gurdy man,
and with stiff, frozen fingers,
he turns what he still can.
Barefoot on the icy ground,
he sways with every beat.
No one cares to listen,
and no coins fall at his feet.
Dogs growl at his presence,
yet no one drives him off.
He plays his hurdy-gurdy —
and never says a word.
Strange old man, shall I go with you?
Will you grind your organ to my songs too?
