opulence

She welcomed him in her arms. Together, slowly, feverishly as though he
was memorising every inch of her. Together, they progressed, aware this may be the last night they might ever have.
The dunes shifted and the hot wind swirled about, foretelling his departure.
A shout echoed and he was gone.

The war had begun.

Inspired by Avaha Yeshana ( old love) by Azam Ali.

It starts off slow, bringing to mind, a vast desert in the middle east. The sand is swirling and the sirrocco blasts across forcefully, indicating approaching horses. A woman stands there, awaiting, eager yet terrified. As she sees the men's faces, she knows. And her heart breaks. The music swells, the beat of the drumfades into the background as the pregnant, rich and lush melody of the flute transalates the anguish with the overtones of the baritone. You see the woman, lying down, with her lover, knowing this was probably the last time she was going to see him. The last night before the battle. Their love making is tender but yet, she is shedding tears. They trickle down her cheek even as she turns away from him, not wanting to let him see her pain but unable to keep it inside. The baritone grows louder, precluding her grief, translating all she cannot say into words. She cannot bear looking at him but she wants, nay, needs to memorise him. He holds her, his strong masculine form comforting , willing her his strength as he is slowly tearing apart. He wished he could give her the promise she craved but he could not, torn between duty to the king and his only love. They are locked in this embrace as dawn slowly emerges. He beseeches her with his eyes to lethim go even as he is loathe to let her go. The music pars down to a mere flautist, reminding one of wispy smoke, as it trails upwards in a reedy thin column, as the the lone baritone slowly emerges to symbolise the woman's grief as she hears the horse hooves thunder away.

soulful.
heart wrenching.