|
A painter I have been |
|
For as long as I can think |
|
But never quenched the feather |
|
Into the firkin of black ink |
|
My motif's been of beauty |
|
Diluted and too light |
|
My stroke of brush is worthless |
|
Until I paint the blackest night |
|
A darkened empty room |
|
A screen in dreadful white |
|
Waiting for the flame |
|
Of inspiration to ignite |
|
So I begin my work |
|
I sweep the brush through black |
|
A line on the horizon |
|
Now there is no coming back |
|
But to my great excitement |
|
Like in a secret rite |
|
With trembling hand I paint |
|
And fill the cloth with night |
|
Deeper and deeper |
|
I fall into trance |
|
I am led by a sorcerous hand |
|
With death in my eyes |
|
And madness at heart |
|
Grandeur is cast into art |
|
Of the shadow, of the sin |
|
And death therein |
|
And darkness fills my sky |
|
Of the brave and seldom kin |
|
Is he who paints the night |
|
By a magic arrangement |
|
And the assistance of fate |
|
Stroke by stroke I descend |
|
Into the abyss I create |
|
Deeper and deeper |
|
I fall into trance |
|
I am led by a sorcerous hand |
|
With death in my eyes |
|
And madness at heart |
|
Grandeur is cast into art |
|
Of the shadow, of the sin |
|
And death therein |
|
And darkness fills my sky |
|
Of the brave and seldom kin |
|
Is he who paints the night |
|
From that secret fountain |
|
Henceforth I will be fed |
|
Never shall I leave its haunt |
|
Until the day I hail the dead |
|
I vomit on your junk |
|
And piss on your false skill |
|
You shall never understand |
|
The glory of good and ill |
|
Shadow, darkness, death and sin |
|
Half off from this pack |
|
You will never be complete |
|
Until you paint the night in black |
