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.