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À¯ÀÏÇÑ ÇǼ­¹ý ¡áVincent (ºó¼¾Æ®) Sung by Don Mclean ¢ÝÀ½¾ÇÀº ¾Æ...


The New Novel (Book)/È£¸Ó  1877

Watercolor and gouache on paper

Museum of Fine Arts, Springfield, Massachusetts





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-½ÉÁ¾Àº


¡áVincent (ºó¼¾Æ®) Sung by Don Mclean (1971)


Songwriter: Don McLean 


ÇǾÆ212 ¢Ü¢¾


À½¾Çµè±â:https://blog.naver.com/eksim/221838207224 


 -BANNER´Ô ºí·Î±×¿¡¼­~


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.

ÃÊ·ÕÃÊ·ÕÇÑ º°ºûÀÌ ½ñ¾ÆÁö´Â ¹ãû»ö°ú ȸ»öÀ¸·Î ÆÈ·¹Æ®¸¦ Ä¥Çϳ׿ä.

³» ¿µÈ¥ ¼Ó¿¡¼­ ¾îµÒÀ» ¾Æ´Â ½Ã°¢À¸·Î ¿©¸§³¯À» ¹Ù¶óº¸³×¿ä.

¾ð´ö À§ÀÇ ±×¸²Àڵ鳪¹«µé°ú¼ö¼±È­µéÀ» ½ºÄÉÄ¡ÇØ¼­

´« µ¤ÀÎ ÇÏ¾á ´ëÁö À§¿¡ »ö±ò·Î »êµé¹Ù¶÷°ú °Ü¿ïÀÇ ÃßÀ§±îÁöµµ ±×·Á ³ÖÁÒ.

 

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.

ÀÌÁ¦¾ß ±×´ë°¡ ³»°Ô ¸»ÇÏ·Á Çß´ø ¹Ù°¡ ¹«¾ðÁö¸¦ ÀÌÇØÇÕ´Ï´Ù.

±×´ëÀÇ Á¤½ÅÀ» Áö۱â À§ÇØ ¾ó¸¶³ª ±«·Î¿öÇϰíÀÚÀ¯·Ó°Ô ÇØÁÖ·Á°í ¾ó¸¶³ª ³ë·ÂÇß´ÂÁö¸¦.

»ç¶÷µéÀº µèÁöµµ ¾Ê¾ÒÁҾÇÏ´ÂÁöµµ ¸ô¶úÁö¿ä¾Æ¸¶µµ »ç¶÷µéÀº ÀÌÁ¨ ±Í¸¦ ±â¿ïÀÏ °Å¿¹¿ä.

 

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.

ÃÊ·ÕÃÊ·ÕÇÑ º°ºûÀÌ ½ñ¾ÆÁö´Â ¹ã¹à°Ô Ÿ¿À¸£´Â ºÒ²Éµé.

º¸¶ó ºû ¾È°³ ¼Ó¿¡¼­ ¼Ò¿ëµ¹ÀÌÄ¡´Â ±¸¸§µéÀÌ Áß±¹Ã»ÀÚ ºûÀÇ ºó¼¾Æ® °íÈåÀÇ ´«¿¡ ºñÃçÁö³×¿ä.

»ö±òÀÌ ¹Ù²î°íȲ±Ýºû °î½ÄÀÌ ÀÍ´Â ¾ÆÄ§ µé³è.

°íÅëÀ¸·Î ÁÖ¸§Áö°í °ÅÄ£ ¾ó±¼µéÀÌ ¿¹¼ú°¡ÀÇ »ç¶û ¾î¸° ¼Õ±æ·Î À§·Î¸¦ ¹Þ³×¿ä.

 

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.

»ç¶÷µéÀº ´ç½ÅÀ» »ç¶ûÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø¾úÁö¸¸¿©ÀüÈ÷ ´ç½ÅÀÇ »ç¶ûÀº Áø½ÇÀ̾úÁÒ.%E

±×¸®°í ½Ã¾ß¿£ ¾Æ¹« Èñ¸Áµµ ¾ø¾ú´øÃÊ·ÕÃÊ·ÕÇÑ º°ºûÀÌ ½ñ¾ÆÁö´ø ¹ã,

´ç½ÅÀº »îÀ» ¸¶°¨Ç߳׿ä. ¿¬ÀεéÀÌ °£È¤ ±×·¯ÇÏ µíÀÌ,

ÇÏÁö¸¸ ³­ ºó¼¾Æ®´ç½Å¿¡°Ô ¸»ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ¾î¿ä.

À̼¼»óÀÌ Àý´ë ÀϺη¯ ±×·± °Ô ¾Æ´Ï¶ó°í±×´ëó·³ ¸ÚÁø ºÐ¿¡°Ô.

 

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.

ÃÊ·ÕÃÊ·ÕÇÑ º°ºûÀÌ ½ñ¾ÆÁö´Â ¹ã,

ÅÖ ºó Ȧ¿¡ °É·ÁÀÖ´Â ÃÊ»óÈ­µé¾Æ¹« ¼³¸íµµ ¾ø´Â º®¿¡ ¾×ÀÚ ¾øÀÌ,

¼¼»óÀ» ÀÀ½ÃÇϸç ÀØÁö ¸øÇÏ´Â ´«À¸·Î ¸»ÀÌÁÒ.

¸¶Ä¡ ´ç½ÅÀÌ ¸¸³µ´ø ³¸¼± »ç¶÷µéó·³´©´õ±â¸¦ °ÉÄ£ ÃßÇÑ»ç¶÷µé,

ÇÇ ¹¯Àº Àå¹ÌÀÇ Àººû °¡½ÃÇϾé°Ô ³»¸° ù´«À§¿¡ À¸½º·¯Áö°í ºÎ¼­Áø ä ´©¿ö ÀÖ±º¿ä.

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...

ÀÌÁ¦¾ß ±×´ë°¡ ³»°Ô ¸»ÇÏ·Á Çß´ø ¹Ù°¡ ¹«¾ðÁö¸¦ ¾Ë °Í °°¾Æ¿ä.

±×´ëÀÇ Á¤½ÅÀ» Áö۱â À§ÇØ ¾ó¸¶³ª ±«·Î¿öÇϰíÀÚÀ¯·Ó°Ô ÇØÁÖ·Á°í ¾ó¸¶³ª ³ë·ÂÇß´ÂÁö¸¦.

»ç¶÷µéÀº µèÁöµµ ¾Ê¾ÒÁÒ¿©ÀüÈ÷ µèÁö ¾Ê°í ÀÖÁҾƸ¶µµ »ç¶÷µéÀº °áÄÚ µèÁö ¾ÊÀ»Áöµµ ¸ô¶ó¿ä. 





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