The moon is bright –
oh the moon is my night light
which I hang from a string
as I simmer and sing
through the darkness,

and the willows are strings
which I pluck as I sing
and the rocks are a drum
which you thrum –

your hand is a cup
oh you gather me up
your lips are abrupt,
and I simmer and sing
as you drink,

and the willows are strings
which I pluck as I sing
and the rocks are a drum
which you thrum,

oh the rocks are a drum
which you thrum as you run
and the reeds are forever parting.