No one knows the joy when you creat.
By definition, something out of nothing.
Colours, canvas, light.
But Christ is the light bulb.
The sunlight Vincent down in Arles.
You painted nudes, I painted flowers.
We drank that cloudy absinthe all night long.
And the women we loved were loose.
When we lived in the yellow house.
In the yellow house life was ideal.
By definition, something one imagines.
Painters, brothers, friends.
At least till the end came.
Complete surprise, attack of range,
A most peculiar place to shave.
In time our championship went wrong.
But the pictures are living proof of our life in the yellow house.
Ruined studio of the south.
Three short months in the yellow house.
I never knew that the malady was madness.
Neither did I my friend,
it sneaks on you from behind.
I believed your condition had improved.
I was convinced that hard work and our friendship would cure me.
I was blind to your suffering forgive me.
You always helped me when you could.
You did your best, at least you tried.
But not enough to distract you from the end...
A wheat field with crows and those cypresses in starry night.
You painted sunflowers is how I remember you.
Only my pistol can comfort this sadness tonight.