Don McLean写这首Vincent,一开始就是打算向梵高致敬的,歌词写的真不错,66译文差远了,惭愧。
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 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 violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field 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 head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the 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 your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...
繁星点点的夜晚
在你调色板上涂满了蓝和灰的颜料
在夏日里眺望
你的眼睛穿透了我心灵的黑暗
拖曳的阴影滑过山丘
勾勒着树林和水仙丛
追逐那微风和冬日的凉爽
仿佛是新雪过后亚麻色的大地
现在我才明白你想对我说的那些话
你为自己的理性受了多少罪
你又如何努力要放飞自己
他们不会聆听,也不知道如何去聆听
也许他们现在会了
繁星点点的夜晚
茂盛繁密的花朵像火烧云般开放
云团在雾霭中转成圈子
映出文森特瓷器般蓝色的双眼
在清晨金黄的麦田里,色彩变幻
风霜刀刻的脸上写满了苦痛
画家的手带着爱意轻轻的抚慰
现在我才明白你想对我说的那些话
你为自己的理性受了多少罪
你又如何努力要放飞自己
他们不会聆听,也不知道如何去聆听
也许他们现在会了
因为他们没法爱上你
但你对他们的爱却那么真实
当眼中看不到一丝希望
在那个繁星点点的夜晚
你结束了自己,就像爱人们经常做的那样
可我应该早点告诉你,文森特
这世界压根配不上
你这样美丽的人儿
繁星点点的夜晚
肖像挂在空旷的礼堂
无名墙上的头像没有画框
那双眼睛盯着世界,无法忘却
好像你遇到的素不相识的人们
被遗弃的人们穿着破烂不堪的衣服
鲜红的玫瑰花下闪着银光的刺
在初霁的新雪被践踏一地
现在我才明白你想对我说的那些话
你为自己的理性受了多少罪
你又如何努力要放飞自己
他们不会聆听,现在还是不会
也许永远都不......


















