Not because it would make me rich,

Because it would make me conscience,

Not for the fame or for the glory,

That’s only an illusion,

I do it for the story,

It starts out slow,

piú mosso, piú mosso,

It starts out quiet,

crescendo, crescendo,

The sound threatens to crack,

spinto, spinto,

The note fails,

But the limit’s been changed,

Striving for richness of tone,

In the job I arranged.