Hands hold hands and eyes behold eyes : hence begins the legend of our hearts.
It is the silvery night of April ; the fragrance of henna is in the air ; your lute lies on the dust neglected and my song is unfinished. This tenderness between you and me is as lucid as a hymn.

My ivory veil makes your eyes lush.
The song that I sing for you enlivens your heart like praise.
It is a play of hiding, yielding and concealing again; some smiles and some coyness, and some deliciously futile struggles.
This tenderness between you and me is as lucid as a hymn.

No mystery beyond this moment; no aims for the impossible; no darkness behind the enchantment; no fumbling in the pitch of black.
This tenderness between you and me is as lucid as a hymn.

We do not run out of all confab into the wordless; we do not raise our hands to pray for impossible hopes.
It is enough that we cede and we gain.
We have not crushed this ecstasy to the absolute to exact from it a harvest of torment.
This tenderness between you and me is as lucid as a hymn.