Vincent
—Don Mclean
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 the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.
那夜繁星点点，
你在画板上涂抹着灰与蓝。
夏日里轻瞥一眼，
便将我灵魂的阴霾洞穿。
暗影铺满群山，
树木与水仙花点缀其间，
用雪原斑驳的色彩，
捕捉着微风与料峭冬寒。
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.
我终于读懂了，
你当时的肺腑之言。
独醒于众人间的你是那么痛苦，
你多想解开被禁锢者的系绊。
可他们却充耳不闻，
对你视若不见。
也许，现在听还为时不晚.
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 fields of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
那夜繁星点点，
鲜花盛放，火般绚烂，
紫幕轻垂，云卷云舒，
都逃不过文森特湛蓝的双眼。
色彩变化万千，
清晨琥珀色的谷田，
张张饱经风霜与苦痛的脸，
在画家笔下渐渐舒展。
Repeat★
重复★
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.
他们根本不会在乎你，
你对他们的爱却未曾改变。
当最后一点希望都一去不返，
在那繁星点点的夜晚，
你愤然结束自己的生命，
如热恋中盲目的人儿一般。
文森特，我本该告诉你。
像你这样美好的灵魂，
本就不该来这肮脏的世间。
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 of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
那夜繁星点点，
空旷的大厅里画作高悬。
无名的墙上无框的肖像，
用注视整个世界的双眼，
把一切刻在心田。
就像你曾遇见的匆匆过客，
褴褛的人身着破烂的衣衫。
血红玫瑰，银白利刺，
零落成泥，摧折寸断，
散落于皑皑雪间。
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.
我想我已能懂，
你当时的肺腑之言。
独醒于众人间的你是那么痛苦，
你多想解开被禁锢者的系绊。
而他们根本不会去听，
此刻，仍无人在听，
也许，永远。
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