He Who Paints The Black Of Night

The Vision Bleak 

 

  

 

   He Who Paints The Black Of Night

 

 

  A painter I have been

  For as long as I can think

  But never quenched the feather

  Into the firkin of black ink

  

  My motif's been of beauty

  Diluted and too light

  My stroke of brush is worthless

  Until I paint the blackest night...

  

  A darkened empty room

  A screen in dreadful white

  Waiting for the flame

  Of inspiration to ignite

  

  So I begin my work

  I sweep the brush through black

  A line on the horizon

  Now there is no coming back

  

  But to my great excitement

  Like in a secret rite

  With trembling hand I paint

  And fill the cloth with night

  

  Deeper and deeper

  I fall into trance

  I am led by a sorcerous hand

  With death in my eyes

  And madness at heart

  Grandeur is cast into art...

  

  Of the shadow, of the sin

  And death therein

  And darkness fills my sky

  Of the brave and seldom kin

   

  

  Is he who paints the night

  

  By a magic arrangement

  And the assistance of fate

  Stroke by stroke I descend

  Into the abyss I create

  

  Deeper and deeper

  I fall into trance

  I am led by a sorcerous hand

  With death in my eyes

  And madness at heart

  Grandeur is cast into art...

  

  Of the shadow, of the sin

  And death therein

  And darkness fills my sky

  Of the brave and seldom kin

  Is he who paints the night

  

  >From that secret fountain

  Henceforth I will be fed

  Never shall I leave its haunt

  Until the day I hail the dead

  

  I vomit on your junk

  And piss on your false skill

  You shall never understand

  The glory of good and ill

  

  Shadow, darkness, death and sin

  Half off from this pack

  You will never be complete

  Until you paint the night in black