Black As The Devil Painteth (Das Ich Remix - Remastered)

An artist is what is called the self 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'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow, embraced by the horizon
Snow flaked and airy mountains,
In which the bare breasted maidens dance to the lay o'midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingfore.

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 nay saying the yearns of mine
What is this unforeseen that not enjoyneth light
Shades to be skillfully painted?

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, fo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave
"The Devil is as Black as He Painteth"
O Canvas! wherefore?