Far away from the fray,
my Celtic harp gently lisping,
I hear the liquid dewdrop tones of
the strings,
as my fingers lightly dance,
hardly touching,
flying, floatingly strumming.
My heart listens to the whirring cry
from the wind,
a highpitched, plaintive whine,
worrying, wondering, in a lovesick
complaint,
where my love is awandering.
