That icy season in rented rooms,
days of pale and watery light,
we might have lost one another
if not for how, each night, we listened
through papered walls to her aria
of despair, the heavy strains
of his grievances
how, without a libretto,
we followed the convoluted weave
of their lies and disguises, the songs
of the foolish, the faithless
he always accusing, demanding,
she promising, pleading
how, in the interlude, we'd turn
to one another, breathless
with their need, their desperate longing
how, in our release, we cried out
with him, Non so più cosa son!
I no longer know who I am!
how in the end, we sobbed
with her, Lascia ch'io pianga.
Let me weep, oh, let me weep.