Une image ordinaire de la Venise ordinaire, sur "Vincent" (*) la très belle chanson de Don Mc Lean, une merveilleuse mélodie qui résonne ce matin dans la maison et exprime bien notre état d'âme ici devant tant de beauté, devant cette lumière incroyable et cette douce mélancolie qui nous prend lorsque déjà nous devons songer à repartir...
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.
And 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 flo'rs that brightly blaze
swirling clouds in violet haze
reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain
weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
And now I understand
what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
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 stranger that you've met
the ragged men in ragged clothes
the silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
And 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 list'ning still
perhaps they never will.
.
* Chanson composée par Don Mc Lean et dédiée à Vincent Van Gogh, devenue un peu l'hymne officiel du musée Van Gogh d'Amsterdam. C'est notre item à Venise.
La première , endormie négligée , faussement bas bleu , très effilée , se demande si Jane Avril n'a plus vingt ans .
Comme le temps passe !
La seconde , bibi Marie von Wägen , espiègle débarquée de Charleston , se méfie .
Ironise .
Nous défie .
Les cuivres sont bien faits .
Les accoudoirs serrés .
Son petit pied est trop parfait .
La troisième , directo sortie d'un Degas , rose de non confusion , fuira le pas des deux .
En lacets .
Les trois Voltaire , qui en ont tant vu , eux , sont assoupis .
Leurs formes sont arrondies .
Comme le temps passe .
Un vrai trésor !
La quatrième me semble trop incongrue .
Modulo 3 .
Venise , c'est une femme !
Ici !