Over there behind the village If there is a hurdy-gurdy, And with stiff fingers He turns what he can. Barefoot on the ice He sways back and forth; And his small plate Always remains empty for him. No one wants to hear him, No one looks at him; And the dogs growl About the old man. And he lets it go Everything as it wills, Turns, and his lyre Never stands still for him. Strange age, Shall I go with you? You want to go to my songs Turning your lyre?
