Breath of ney

The breath of Ney floats down the valley

wafled on the thymeladen air of the foothills.

It hovers over the village.

Brushing lightly the cheek of my beloved

it mates with the scent of her hair

until I know not of what I am conscious:

or music or perfume.

It murmurs on its way to the brook beyond the house

The echo of its last note lingers

to meet the ripple that veils our kisses

Oh, shepherd of the hills, play on

for the song of life eternally renewed is in the breath of Ney.