starling means nothing
The things we robbed from each other. The things we stole. Where do we go? We ruined boys without a home, a voice, a guide? In the movie, Farinelli, the famous castrato, il ragazzo ("the boy"), delights the world with his soprano voice; and yet we find the rivalry between himself and the composer George Frideric Handel threatens to destroy them both. I have no Handel to demand secrets from me; just fear. The fears we all suffer. The fears that will drive us forward. The fears that will be our undoing.
There are no metaphors, yet simple things
madden us. Farinelli's pound of flesh,
a boy soprano, castrati who sings,
little starling, means nothing. This flesh, fresh
from the cutting board, cannot be trusted.
I have corrupted this ruined body;
tear out my cursed voice. I have corrupted
the voice, too; tear at my body. Mercy.
There shall be no mercy. No. It is all
about blood returning home with what you
once called a need. Frenzied greed. That last small
emotion. The last small everything. Who
would take you now, boy-waste? No one. Nothing
wants such a maimed, lamed bird that cannot sing.