My muse, my lover, my soul, my friend

Smooth and supple, white floss bends

Swiftly o’er the silver strings

The poet hums; the minstrel sings

My muse, my lover, my soul, my friend

On the ebony descend

Gliding, flying, dancing girls

They twist, they turn; they spin, they whirl

The neck feels smooth upon my palm

The sweaty wood smells sweet and calm

The vibrations meld into my pulse

Now melancholy, sad, morose

Our kiss must finish

Our song must end

My muse, my lover, my soul, my friend.