Vincent

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.
They did 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 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 bloddy 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.

Don McLean