An opera singer lived next door.
He practised scales while making tea
-- his cries increasing more and more,
each morning waking me.
My lover loved that singer's voice.
She glowed and hummed on hearing it,
her sighs would ride upon his noise,
not stopping till he'd quit.
Forte became fortissimo.
With all my strength I wished him ill.
My lover laughed until, oh no,
mid-screech his voice grew still.
We held our breath, our shocked eyes met;
next dawn, our ears pressed to the wall,
we knocked and waited, bathed in sweat,
but heard no sound at all.
My former love now lives next door.
She mourns a man she never knew
-- her sighs increasing more and more;
each dawn we die anew.