Your voice is so sweet, my darling.
How my fingers itch to trace your smooth strings,
to rub down your glossy surface with a silken, linen cloth,
over and over again.
How I long to close my eyes,
to feel your scroll resting in my palm,
to breathe in the luscious fragrance arising from freshly polished maplewood.
How you come alive when the bow slides upon your strings,
how my fingers dance as the notes sweetly sing.
Surely, you are the most beautiful instrument, my dear.