In the hush of moonlit strings, a flame begins to rise,
copper palms strike cedar ribs, and thunder learns to fly.
Old Camargue winds keep whispering, “your sorrow is your guide”;
I lace their voices through my chords, let sorrow slip outside.
Across the restless Rh?ne I hear the caravan reply—
every missing heartbeat falls back into time.
So when the world grows dim and silence tries to hide,
lift your restless spirit, let the gypsy spark reside.