It's You, the song

Instruments rest in obscurity

for a few hours per day:

the people we have a place with aren't dependably influencing everything,

so we can't necessarily in every case be working.

Our quietness holds music: an unseen bourne,

skylines which have never been seen,

like undeclared love developing further in isolation,

or on the other hand the glasslike heart of a stone.

My rest, in any case, was more similar to a passing:

in the corner of an upper room for a really long time;

failing to remember my reality, and my magnificent profession

with the best female swing band on the earth.

I was the extraordinary love of my Darling's life.

A man separated us. Furthermore, soon

I was uninformed gathering dust and unnatural;

they were articulated man and spouse.

Rather than the diagrams, my lady read Dr. Spock.

We played one time each week, one time each year . . .

Right away, from my wardrobe, I had the option to hear

her family's coninuo of talk.

My Darling's grandson carried me to the shop.

Something has destroyed my voice.

More seasoned, not riper, I'm a sorry old bass.

Yet, that doesn't mean I've lost trust

. . .that somebody will hold me in a delicate hug,

her arms will enclose my neck;

somebody will squeeze her warm length to my back,

also, pluck notes from my stomach with her fingers' stroke.