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Is this what you call love?
This endless and insatiable
Smothering pursuit of me.
You think that this is love?
I'm sorry that you're lonely,
I'm sorry that you want me as you do.
I'm sorry that I fail to feel
The way you want me to feel.
I'm sorry that you're ill,
I'm sorry you're in pain.
I'm sorry that you aren't beautiful.
But yes, I wish you'd go away
And leave me alone!
Everywhere I turn, there you are
This is not love
Just some kind of obsession.
Will you never learn when too far is too far,
Have you no concern
For what I want, what I feel?
(pointing at Clara's letter)
Love is what you earn and return
When you care for another
So much that the other's set free.
Don't you see?
Can't you understand?
Love's not a constant demand,
It's a gift you bestow
Love isn't sudden surrender
It's tender and slow, it must grow.
Yet everywhere I go,
You appear or I know you are near
This is now love just a need for possession.
Call it what you will
This is not love, this is a reverse
Like a curse, something out of control
I've begun to fear
For my soul...
(Music stops; a loud clap of thunder is heard.
Trembling, Fosca sudders momentarily and crumples
to the ground. Giorgio turns and sees her lying
there; he crosses the stage past her and begins
to exit. He stops, pauses for a moment, then
reluctantly returns to her, covering her with
his coat. He picks her up and carries her offstage
as the lights fade to black.)
Outside. The soldiers are on guard.