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The wanderers who wind the roads
Come from afar among the wheat fields
Good people watch and listen
And the stars tell them to dance
The old castles erected from the depths of the Middle Ages
Seem to guide their steps as light as a morning
And among the dungeons pressed into the clouds
Princesses wave to them with their hands
But twenty year old guys who look like gods
Carefree and joyful among their crazy rounds
Pass under the dungeons without saying a word
They don't look at their arms outstretched towards them
So dance, pretty wanderer
It's the ballad, it's the ballad
So dance, pretty wanderer
It's the ballad of Harlequin
These wanderers who wind the roads
But who are they in their golden costumes?
Wanderers or gods in defeat
Their only treasure is songs
When they are no longer thirsty, having drunk from the mist
They will dance barefoot on silver threads
That five thousand spiders will weave under the moon
From a holly branch to frozen fir trees
They are accompanied in their divine round
By the children of kings with long curly hair
It's a blue procession of a thousand mandolins
Where bridal veils float everywhere
This is how the greatest marriage is experienced
Of the girl of the wind with a Harlequin
But it was all just a fragile mirage
And I'm left all alone with my tomorrows
So dance, pretty wanderer
It's the ballad, it's the ballad
So dance, pretty wanderer
It's the ballad of Harlequin
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