An Ode to Vincent

If i had a time machine i would have spent a lifetime just being around him ,observing him , talking to him and may be wiping a few of his tears...I have spent a full day at Van gogh's museum and still came back empty & craving for more , as i felt there is so much to know about him and his works .I somehow can relate to him so much and each of his piantings .God knows how and why but whenever i see his work i tend to think what frame of mind he might have been at that moment. Read his complete life story , did a bit of research on the letters he wrote to Theo ( His brother ). I simply fail to understand why a genius is recognized post humous ! Does it need a lifetime for someone to get accredited for his work ? And why are all great men ( and women ) eccentric . Is eccentricity = genius or is it vice versa . Glad that Don Mc lean composed something which is incredible : 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...