Pale fingers twist into ivory keys,
Resonating with cries of sweet pain,
From choked hands, pleading for air.
Seeking refuge from your charm,
I’ve turned to song to hide me.
I’ll be Daphne, this piano my tree.
You’ll wear these keys as a crown of laurels,
On top of your infatuated head,
Poor fool Apollo.

Father’s notes envelope me tenderly,
Granting me my hearts desire,
Asylum from your unyielding chase.
Crying for breath I beg,
Swept up in melodious symphonies,
Leaving you trapped in unrequited memories of love.
You’ll wear these keys as a crown of laurels,
On your stubborn, single-minded head.
Poor love struck fool Apollo.

Eros will play harp-like melodies on his golden bow,
Taunting you forever with loveless fights,
Never to know the truth of a lover’s gaze.
Evermore enveloped in loveless moderation.
You’ll wear these keys as a crown of laurels,
On your broken-hearted, lovesick head.
Poor vain love struck, fool Apollo.