Daughter of the Nightingale.

Bianca stepped out on stage, her heavy costume not bothering her, it felt as light as paper against her lithe body, and she faced the audience, the heat of the spotlight on her pale, alabaster skin. She heard the soft melody of the orchestra start to play, and she opened her mouth to let the notes flow softly. 

O mio babbino caro,
mi piace, è bello, bello.
Vo’andare in Porta Rossa
a comperar l’anello!

She closed her eyes, letting the beautiful song escape from her lips. Every word, she sang with such sweetness, like the song of the Nightingale in spring. 

Sì, sì, ci voglio andare!
e se l’amassi indarno,
andrei sul Ponte Vecchio,
ma per buttarmi in Arno!

Her voiced echoed throughout the Opera house, going into a soft crescendo. Then opened her eyes, which shined like diamonds and sung:

Mi struggo e mi tormento!
O Dio, vorrei morir!
Babbo, pietà, pietà!
Babbo, pietà, pietà!

Bianca builded up on her words then with such sorrow of a woman who is longing for her lover, and if her love were in vain, she would rather die. Bianca raised her pitch, holding her note, softly, gently as if laying a babe to rest, then ending. As she finished her song, loud applause could be heard from all over and she smiled then curtsied. There was no other voice like hers. She had the voice of a bell, and she sung with such lightness of the Nightingale. She smiled, and sighed happily. And as everybody left the Opera house that night, in the small corners of the Opera house, and in the empty seats, echoes of her voice could be heard, singing,

 Babbo, pietà, pietà!

Babbo, pietà, pietà!

HW