I am on the other side of the grid
There is this window, this grid. There is inside this other window open on which space? I will never know it. I always remained on the bad side of the wall vis-a-vis the grid, with the closed window. You do not open it. I imagine a dark, sad part where you do not come. You must live other side in the light. A garden, flowers, the sun, it is your universe. It is not any more mine since you isolated yourself from me. The bars of the grid are cold in spite of the heat of the last days. I touched them. I tried to draw above, imagining to twist them. Which madness? They are hard, stronger than me. You wanted them inviolable. They are it to protect you, to move away me from you. I saw your silhouette slipping furtively into the part, behind the window. I cannot affirm it. All went so quickly. I want to believe that it is you. But, I am not really certain. My memories mix. The doubt replaced my certainty. I am on the other side of the grid. The bad place if it is. That which you indicated me forever.
Lire la suiteDe l’autre côté de la grille
Il y a cette fenêtre, cette grille. Il y a à l’intérieur cette autre fenêtre ouverte sur quel espace ? Je ne le saurai jamais. Je suis toujours resté du mauvais côté du mur face à la grille, à la fenêtre fermée. Tu ne l’ouvres pas. J’imagine une pièce sombre, triste où tu ne viens pas. Tu dois vivre de l’autre côté dans la lumière. Un jardin, des fleurs, le soleil, c’est ton univers. Il n’est plus le mien depuis que tu t’es isolée de moi. Les barreaux de la grille sont froids malgré la chaleur des derniers jours. Je les ai touchés. J’ai essayé de tirer dessus, imaginant les tordre. Quelle folie ? Ils sont durs, plus forts que moi. Tu les as voulu inviolables. Ils le sont pour te protéger, m’éloigner de toi. J’ai vu ta silhouette se glisser furtivement dans la pièce, derrière la fenêtre. Je ne peux pas l’affirmer. Tout est allé si vite. Je veux croire que c’est toi. Mais, je n’en suis pas vraiment certain. Mes souvenirs se mélangent. Le doute a remplacé mes certitudes. Je suis de l’autre côté de la grille. La mauvaise place s’il en est. Celle que tu m’as désignée à jamais.
Lire la suiteThe road without end
There is at the end of the road without end, over there, at the bottom of wood, so far to find it is a miracle, a small castle. At the edge of a river, it looks at water running its abandoned towers. Some walkers all, luckier the ones than the others, make of this place a secrecy. They find silence and peace there. No more time ago, neither of rules, nor of principles, just the calm of an opened out and wild nature. There remains especially the pleasure of having had the chance to lose itself on the road without end along its twisted turns which never finish any. To leave becomes one moment in charge of regrets. Contrary, there will remain always the burning desire to return there.
Lire la suiteAu bout de la route sans fin
Il y a au bout de la route sans fin, là-bas, au fond des bois, si loin que le trouver est un miracle, un petit château. Au bord d’une rivière, il regarde l’eau couler de ses tours abandonnées. Quelques promeneurs, tous plus chanceux les uns que les autres, font de ce lieu un secret. Ils y trouvent le silence et la paix. Il n’y a plus d’époque, ni de règles, ni de principes, juste le calme d’une nature épanouie et sauvage. Il reste surtout le plaisir d’avoir eu la chance de se perdre sur la route sans fin le long de ses virages tordus qui n’en finissent jamais. Partir devient un instant chargé de regrets. A l’inverse, il restera toujours l’ardent désir d’y revenir.
Lire la suiteThe moon does not have any more pity of us…
I often went, by the ways of the forest, to the cross. That lost, with the crossroads of four ways, in the middle of the vastness of dark and worrying trees. I do not count any more the number of times where I came. Since my first visit, I do not live any more but for the marvellous gleam which accommodated me. It alleviates me. Once again, I progress towards it. The moon clarifies my steps, choked by the carpet of dead leaves. The shades of the trees are done narrower, more discrete. The raptors stop whistling. Little by little, silence is done heavy, heavy, oppressive. I felt this impression at the time of my first arrival. This night when I had been mislaid whereas I sought you hopelessly. But that does not worry me now any more. It is, each time, similar. I came day without feeling this impression of marvellous heat penetrating me. The stone cross is traditional on its base, beautiful, without more. Whereas the night, the moonbeam which transpierces it projects in background another cross white which seems to float in the air. From day, it is not seen. It is translucent, unreal. Often, I tighten the hand it to seize but you me leashes never to approach. You left this evening fog in the large forest not to return never again. I sought you without never you to find if these are not the marvellous cross which in my imaginary replaces you. This is why, this evening, like the other evenings, I visit you. The forest avoids silence, offering a share of intimacy to us. There will be few things to say oneself. I will approach the cross, to sit down in front of it, to wait until the moon comes to cherish of a magic ray the cross, causing the appearance. I am afraid. Yesterday, it was not there. Days preceding too. Did the vacuum of our last meetings come to extinguish my imagination and the marvellous gleam? For several nights, the moonbeams have not touched any more the stones of the cross. My pain of your absence moves away, my mourning is done. The moon does not have any more pity of us…
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J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
