Scarpia (Aside)

RICARDO PAU-LLOSA
I heard those ripened, muted swoons, although/ that was no kiss—a dagger sunk into my chest./ What use authority if it cannot impose/ a hidden will? The songbird, let her muse /
the painter in his cavern, his mettle at the test, /
while she flickers here for me, beyond sorrow /
and contrition.