starry, starry night, paint your palette blue and gray,
look out on a summer’s day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
shadows on the hills, sketch the trees and 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 violent haze, reflecting vincent’s eyes that shine of 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 heads on nameless walls with eyes that watch the world and can’t forget.
like the strangers that you’ve met
the ragged men in ragged clothes,
the silver thorn, the 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.