He is so fatally lone like a sail on the sea
To be born blind - what a misfortune!
He never left his house for fear of falling
And still he didn't take offence at his fate
There was one consolation in his existence
Strange though it may seem, he found himself in painting
He painted still life and landscapes
Without even seeing his works
Having no idea of colour
The blind artist paints summer during a cold winter
The blind artist is unable to see paints
But all his pictures look like fairy-tales
His soul's cry was bursting out in his canvases
Everybody saw in them something personal and wondered
How one, unacquainted with love, could paint happiness
And put bloody hell next door to heaven
Having no idea of colour
The blind artist paints summer during a cold winter
The blind artist is unable to see paints
But all his pictures look like fairy-tales