String the harp, O Bard! The red threads of Fate, having fallen to thy hands, Raise the dead in song.
Unnamed names become immortal at thy touch, Fragmented voices fill the graveyards with veiled polyphonies Etched between the ridges of fingers deft, Faultless, bounding down the scales Before flying again to their heights.
Oracle of the great halls, The words of Muses, gods, and poets alike Fall on ears deafened with wine and revelry, Heedless, though one day they too Shall wail beneath thy fingers.
"Black Horse: Mongolian Traditional Music" album: https://youtu.be/JUEeVnzLzLc