Starry ,Starry Night

Lyrics and Music:
Don McLean, Vincent 1971.

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.


Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.


Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning fields of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.


Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.


For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.


Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.


Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...



摘录自网络：『靠近你，温暖我』[心海漫波] 两生一世

作者：紫叙

我想梵高一定是个微笑疯狂的男子，他偏执而又极端地用一生想法去追逐一些什么，僻如爱，僻如阳光，僻如艺术。他所需的追求，在高高在上的上帝面前只相当于一个孩子不停地向成人去要那颗被认为仅仅是用来装饰盘面的糖果，在遭到拒绝时，他就豪无顾忌的哭了。上帝烦了，一挥手，给了他才华横溢，却忘了给他爱与阳光。甚至是能欣赏他的人。

于是他不被理解地奔跑着挥动着画笔，他的一生就是在奔跑与画笔中的彻头彻尾的宣泄。他的爱是对向日葵的疯狂，他的爱是早已被注定无法触及的禁区，是近似于一种大声呼救却又四壁无援的绝望，在街头人们看着这个神情模糊的中年男子哭了，笑了，疯了，癫了，狂了，没有反应。在生硬的空气里，他已不知道怎样包裹住自己，就只好索性毫无保留的宣泄出来，于是他的画就有了一种感情色彩，是一种愤怒，是一种呐喊，是一种渴望，是一种抗争。然而，这一切，在命中注定这四个字面却又显得那么的苍白与无力。他割掉了自己的耳朵，那是真的，在疼与疼之间，他努力着尽力着让自己保持对信仰的清醒。没人能懂，所有人都认为他是个疯子，甚至要求把他送入疯人院，而他的画呢？到死也没有一家咖啡馆愿意展出，在绝望中他朝自已的腹部开了一枪，在医生赶来时，他笑了说：“看来，这次，我又没有干好！”
　　　　　　
是的，在这个世界上，没有人能真正的成为上帝的宠儿，梵高死了，死在了绝望和旷世的孤独中，即使他活在现在，知道了他画的每一幅在现在都价值连城，连出生地荷兰，法国都争相把他当做自已的国民。这又能如何呢？这一切在尘封了百年的伤口上；已没有了意义。毕竟没有人能真正的走进去。没有人能完整得走出来，没有人对梵高的疯狂与孤独的淡黄色的忧郁中添上一笔爱与阳光。然而回日葵安逸中的狂野与野性毫无象征性地鄙视着那些花高价到博物馆，盯着自已的一双双冷漠而又挑剔的眼神，一如梵高死时的目光，冷了，却又在燃烧。