As tanks burn near his hometown, the young artist watches, preparing for the stage again.
A sensation, he will sing Don Carlos soon, against the blinding light.
The fatal hour has sounded.
His grandmother is ill, his mother stays. We can hear the shelling, she told him, days before.
A future full of tenderness. Our days spent beneath blue skies!
He texts her his prayer again, and it is Mama.
Inspired by an article I saw this morning in the New York Times, about Vladyslav Buialskyi performing at the Metropolitan Opera while he waits anxiously for updates about his family. The young artist is from Berdyansk, which was among the first towns besieged by the Russian invasion. Italicized lines above are from this English translation of Verdi’s Don Carlos.