This aria from Tchaikovsky's opera Iolanta is sung by the blind princes Iolanta. She wakes up and realizes the world is different from what she thought.
Why have I not known sorrow
or tears till now?
Why have I spent my days
amid heavenly sounds and roses?
Whenever I heard birds twittering,
or distant pine forests warming to life
and everywhere ringing with jubilation,
I felt I was standing in a triumphant choir.
But now every day I feel a mysterious,
deep reproach in everything,
which seems to rebuke fate for sending
the chorus of birds and the rushing stream.
Why are night's stillness and coolness
dearer to me now?
Why do I hear sobbing
whenever the nightingale sings?
Tell me why, Martha?
No comments:
Post a Comment