The mill wheel turns with a groaning sigh,
grinding the hours as the clouds roll by,
white flower dust on the old man's hands.
Like ghosts of the wheat from forgotten lands,
his ledger's stained with ale and rain,
pages heavy with unpaid pain.
For every sack of golden grain,
the mill takes more than can explain.
Oh,
the miller grinds,
but the miller grieves,
turning love to loaves and hearts to sheaves.
The fiddle cries where the river bends,
counting losses the mill still lends.
Sing,
miller,
sing through the grinding heat,
some debts are paid in blood,
not wheat.
Young Tom came courting the miller's maid,
with pockets empty but promises laid.
He swore he'd pay when the harvest came,
but autumn fell with a banker's name.
Now the millstones hum a hollow tune,
and the girl stares out at a waning moon.
Her apron strings in a lover's knot,
tied to a memory time forgot.
Oh,
the miller grinds,
but the miller grieves,
turning love to loaves and hearts to sheaves.
The fiddle cries where the river bends,
counting losses the mill still lends.
Sing, miller, sing through the grinding heat,
some debts are paid in blood,
not wheat.
The
river's cold where the wheel still turns,
the baker buys what the millstone burns.
The accordion wheezes a merchant's tune,
counting pennies beneath the moon.
Oh,
the rich man eats while the poor man kneels,
the mill takes more than the harvest yields.
Now the mill stands silent, the wheel at rest,
the ledger closed with the final guess.
The flower's all gone,
but the debt remains,
etched in the grain of the miller's veins,
and the wind still hums through the empty shed a song of the living
who owe the dead.