This title is for centering. This title is for centering. This title is for centering. This title is for centering. This title is for centering. This title is

for centering. This title is for centering. This title is for centering.

From Il trovatore Act II

- We’re alone. Please, tell me that sorrowful story. - You don’t know it? Even you?

But, as a boy, ambition led you away from here.

This is the story of your grandmother’s bitter end.

The Count accused her of witchcraft, and when he said his son was bewitched, she was burned where you now stand!

The bastard!

They led her in irons to her terrible fate;

with my son in my arms, I followed her, weeping.

In vain I tried to get through the crowd.

In vain the poor woman tried to stop and bless me!

With obscene cursing, pricking her with their swords,

They forced her to the stake, the murderers!

Then, in a broken voice, “Avenge me!” she cried!

Those words left an eternal echo in my heart.

- Did you avenge her? - I was able to steal the Count’s son.

I brought him here with me…the flames were ready, burning…

- The flames? Heaven! Did you… - He was crying. I felt my heart breaking!

When suddenly, to my weak spirit, a vision appeared…

…a vision of frightful forms…

…the killers! The torture!

My mother, her face pale, disheveled… barefoot… the cry!

The cry! The cry I hear and know! Listen!“Avenge me!”

My hand shaking, I reach out… I grab the victim…I bring the boy to the fire… and push him into it!

The madness ceases… the horrid scene flees…the flame rages on and destroys its prey!

I looked around, and all I saw was the wicked Count’s son!

- What are you saying! - My own son, my own son I burned!

I still feel my hair standing on end!

I am not your son! Then who am I? Who?

- You are my son! - But you said…

Perhaps. So? When I remember the event, my addled spirit puts foolish words in my mouth.

Have I not always been a tender mother to you?

- Could I deny it? - If you still have life, do you not owe it to me?

That night, on the battlefield,when they said you were dead, did I not come to bury you?

Did I not attend your dying breaths? And did my mother’s love not keep the breath of life in your breast?

And how much care did I lavish on youin healing your many wounds?

I bore those fatal wounds here in my chest. I alone,among a thousand retreating soldiers, faced my foe.

The evil De Luna fell upon me with his troop: I fell!But as a strong man I fell!

He owes you his days, which you in single combat gave to him.What strange pity for him blinded you?

- Oh, mother I don’t understand it myself! - Strange pity!

Being beaten by my fierce attack,he had fallen to the ground.

My blade flashed above him in my hand,a thrust ready to pierce him…

…when suddenly a mysterious feeling stopped my hand,at the moment it was about to descend upon him.

A chill ran through every fiber of my being!A cry from heaven tells me: don’t strike!

But to that ingrate’s soul, heaven said nothing.

Oh, if fate brings you again to fight with that man,carry out, oh son, like a God, my order to you:

Up to the hilt of your blade,sheathe it in the wicked one’s heart!

Yes, I swear it!This blade will descend into the wicked one’s heart!

The messenger Ruiz is calling. I must answer…

- Come in… tell me, was there more fighting? - Let the letter I bring answer that question.

“Castellor is ours. The Prince orders you supervise its defense.Come! Being told you have died, Leonora takes the veil…”

Oh merciful heaven!

- What is it? - Go down the hill quickly and get me a horse!

Time is wasting! Go! Wait for me at the foot of the hill!

- What are you doing? - (To lose her! To lose that angel!)

- No, stop, listen. - Let me go!

Stop! I am talking to you!

You are risking your injured self on a wild and solitary path!

Do you wish the wound in your breast reopened?

I cannot bear it, your blood is my blood!

Every drop you spill is wrung from my heart!

One moment can steal from me my love, my hope!Heaven and earth cannot stop me!

- Madman! - Get out of my way, mother! Woe to you if I were kept here!

You would see at your feet, your son, dead of grief!

- I cannot bear it! - Woe to you if I were kept here!

- Your blood is my blood, wrung from my heart! - You would see your son dead of grief!