No one knows the joy when you create
By definition, something out of nothing
Colors, canvas, light
But Christ is the light pole
The sunlight, Vincent, down in Arles
You painted n***s, I painted flowers
We drank that cloudy absinthe all night long
And the women we loved were loose
When we lived in the yellow house

In the yellow house life was ideal
By definition, something one imagines
Painters, brothers, friеnds
At least 'til the end camе
Complete surprise, attack of rage
A most peculiar place to shave
In time our fine companionship went wrong
But our pictures are living proof
Of our life in the yellow house

Ruined studio of the south
Three short months in the yellow house
I never knew that the malady was madness
Neither did I, my friend, it sneaks up on you from behind
I believed your condition had improved
I was convinced that hard work and our friendship would cure me
I was blind to your suffering, forgive me
You always helped me when you could
You did your best, at least you tried
But not enough to distract you from the end
A wheat field with crows and those cypresses in Starry Night
You painting sunflowers is how I remember you
Only my pistol can comfort this sadness tonight