Joanna Wang/Don MacLean - Vincent; Starry, Starry Night

 

   

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.
And 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 flo'rs 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.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
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 heads on nameless walls
With eyes
That watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met

The ragged men in ragged clothes

The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken
On the virgin snow.
And 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
List'ning still
Perhaps they never will.

 

"Il libro dell'inquietudine" F. Pessoa

"E io sono così, futile e sensibile, capace di impulsi violenti e coinvolgenti; buoni e cattivi; nobili e vili; ma mai di un sentimento che perduri, mai di una emozione che continui e penetri nella sostanza dell’anima.

Tutto in me tende ad essere poi un’altra cosa: una impazienza dell’anima verso se stessa, come verso un bambino inopportuno; una inquietudine sempre crescente e sempre uguale.

Tutto mi interessa e nulla mi prende.

Seguo tutto sognando sempre; fisso le minime contrazioni del viso di colui con cui parlo, colgo le intonazioni millimetriche del suo modo di dire; ma nell’udirlo, non lo ascolto, penso ad un’altra cosa,  e quello che meno ho colto della conversazione è stata la nozione di ciò che è stato detto, da parte mia o da parte di colui con  cui ho parlato."