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 $$#istance 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 it's 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 I'll


Shadow, darkness, death and sin
Half off from this pack
You will never be complete

Until you paint the night in black