One day I saw on a road
A fallen tree
It wasn't a simple log
It was pinewood
And a craftsman was sculpting
A woman's body on it
Afterwards, during the night
I saw the craftsman walking on the road
Gathering the moon shine
Making strings of silver
Which, if stretched, vibrate
The naked woman's body
And the craftsman, finally
In this wooden woman
He put his heart
And pushed it against his chest
And gave her a beautiful name
That's how the guitar was born