Vicent

No conocí a Don McLean y esta canción hasta hace unos meses. Me subyugó, porque me ayudó a entender lo que pudieron sentir artistas con los que conviví y que ya no están.

Noche estrellada.
Pinta de azul y gris tu paleta.
Escruta un día de verano
con ojos que conocen la oscuridad de mi alma.

Sombras en la colina.
Esboza árboles y narcisos.
Captura la fría brisa del invierno
en colores sobre la tierra de lino nevada.

Noche estrellada.
Luminosas flores de brillante resplandor.
Torbellino de nubes en la niebla violácea
se reflejan en los ojos de Vincent de porcelana azul.
Los colores cambian de matiz.
Campos matutinos de trigo ámbar,
rostros curtidos por el dolor
aplacado por la tierna mano del artista.

Ahora comprendo
lo que tratabas de decirme,
y como sufriste por tu lucidez,
y como trataste de liberarles.
No escucharon, no sabían cómo.
Tal vez escuchen ahora.

Pero no sabían quererte.
Aún así tu amor era sincero.
Y cuando no te quedaba esperanza,
en esa noche estrellada
te quitaste la vida como suelen hacer los amantes

Yo podría haberte dicho, Vincent,
que este mundo no se hizo
para alguien tan bello como tú,
como los extraños que conociste,
el harapiento de andrajosa vestimenta.
Espina de plata, una sanguinolenta rosa
Yace aplastada sobre la impoluta nieve.

Creo que ahora sé
lo que intentaste decirme
Cómo sufriste por tu lucidez,
y cómo intentabas liberarles.
No te escucharon.
Aún siguen sin escuchar,
y tal vez nunca lo hagan.

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…