Othello’s duet intertwines, like a rich and ancient wine, slowly wrapping round my heart. My voice rises next to his, and his voice burns warmer still, kindled softly by mine. The one who always guided me, the one I worshipped from afar, now stands before me singing. Desdemona, povera fanciulla, non perderti in una musica così dolce. Attenta alla scatola d’oro— la scatola d’oro che non deve aprirsi. His voice is deep as midnight, dark and shining like a flame, drawing me nearer still. Every harmony we share pulls me closer to his shadow, closer to forbidden light. This longing tastes like nectar, sweet as prayer upon my lips, burning gently through my soul. Surely one who sings like this must hide beauty underneath, brighter than the morning star. And so I reach toward him, like opening the golden box with trembling hands of hope. Is it worship? Is it love? I no longer truly know. Only Othello’s duet still echoes through the darkness. Desdemona, povera fanciulla, non perderti in una musica così dolce. Attenta alla scatola d’oro— la scatola d’oro che non deve aprirsi.
