Just the piano at first—a small pattern turning in place, plain enough to feel like a crank.

The pulse is steady, but nothing softens around it. You're left watching the circle keep going.

Voice enters into that bare space—out past the village, a hurdy-gurdy man standing there.

Stiff fingers now, turning what they can, and the accompaniment still won't thicken for him.

Barefoot on the ice—he sways there, and the piano stays as exposed as the line.

The little plate is there. No swelling rescue under that image—just the same ground turning.

No one wants to hear him. The texture already behaves like that neglect.

No one looks at him. The pulse holds, human and a little damaged.

He lets it all go as it will. Worse than a complaint, because the pattern doesn't stop.

The lyre turns—surrender is just another turn of the same crank.

Still that narrow figure under him. Resignation described, and you can still feel the instrument turning.

Closer now—direct address: strange old man. Same exposed mechanism, no sudden warmth.

Will you come to my songs? The question opens companionship without brightening the room.

Small breaks in the pattern—the turning loosens and thins rather than answering what it showed.