Текст песни Black As The Devil Painteth - Theatre of Tragedy

An artist is what is called
The self that the brush holdeth
Though hath it then caringly caressed
The canvas of tomorrow

O Canvas, for thee I hold my tool
Still passionless it quivereth
Minding not that my hands are more than apt
My muse

Where is hidden the blue-hued arch
Beneath the high heaven′s rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow embraced by the horizon
Snowflaked and aery mountains
In which the bare-breasted maidens
Dance to the lay o'midsummer
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore

O Canvas, wherefore canst thou these images not allow?
I deem a projection of my theatre they should be
Then I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o′mine
What is this unforseen that not
Enjoineth light shades to be skillfully painted?

I thought that love would last forever
I was wrong

The raven sky preyed on by the snowfilled, blustery clouds
Unadorned the meadow, hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood
The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon
And lo! 'Twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave

The devil is as black as he painteth
O Canvas, wherefore?
The devil is as black as he painteth
O Canvas, wherefore?