You draw out long notes across my strings—
what matters most could make me weep—
ignoring almost everything,
the long hours and the lack of sleep.
What matters most could make me weep.
The way you fret me will upset me
for hours on end. The lack of sleep
has kept me crying fitfully.
The way you fret me still upsets me.
No amount of tender fingering
has stopped my crying fitfully
or my thoughts from wandering.
No amount of tender fingering
can draw those long notes from my strings.
You have set my thoughts to wandering,
ignoring almost everything.