«Outra história melancólica é a da Irlanda. Quem não conhece as queixas seculares da Irlanda, da Verde Erin, terra de bardos e terra de santos, onde uma plebe conquistada, resto nobre de raça céltica, esmagada por um feudalismo agrário, vivendo em buracos como os servos góticos, vai desesperadamente disputando à urze, à rocha, ao pântano, magras tiras de terra, onde cultiva em lágrimas a batata?»
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 you 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 you 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 heads on nameless walls with eyes that watch the world and can't forget. Like the stranger that you've met, the ragged man in 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 you sanity How you tried to set them free They would not listen they're not listening still Perhaps they never will.
