Low bass is already walking under soft voices. Grief is moving before anyone names it.

There—her voice cuts in on "Amor," straight up, while that bass keeps its quiet step.

Now she's asking where the sworn faith went. The floor under her doesn't stop.

Other voices answer with a plain "Miserella." Pity, not rescue.

And right away she begs: bring my love back as he was, or end me.

Witnesses again—"Miserella"—then she hardens: no more of his sighs unless they're far away.

Those repeated no's sit on the same patient bass. Refusal still has to walk the old path.

She turns on herself now—why waste away for him?

Pride creeps in, and a flash of leaving him so he'd have to beg. The ground folds that thought back in.

Listen—she's measuring a rival's face against her own. Jealousy takes the line.

The charge gets intimate: sweeter kisses from that mouth. The harmony sinks a little at a time.

"Taci"—she shuts herself up. She already knows too much.

The group opens the cry back out toward the sky. Her private grief goes public again.

Everything thins. What's left is mostly that low tread, still walking after the voices let go.