The moon tear
Transitory moment of happiness. Crossing the vault of the skies, in languorous the one evening heat of summer, on your castle a moon tear ran. Rebounding on the white stones, the windows with small squares, the gravel ground, it was stretched. The sheep did not raise the head, too absorptive to eat. This gleam lasted, if little lived little, causing regrets so much. There remains only this image about it giving to its memory the grace of eternity.
Lire la suiteLa larme de lune
Éphémère moment de félicité. Traversant la voute des cieux , dans la langoureuse chaleur d’un soir d’été, sur ton château une larme de lune a coulé. Rebondissant sur les pierres blanches, les fenêtres à petits carreaux, le sol de graviers, elle s’est étirée. Les moutons n’ont pas levé la tête, trop absorbés de manger. Cette lueur a peu duré, si peu vécu, provoquant tant de regrets. Il n’en reste que cette image donnant à son souvenir la grâce de l’éternité.
Lire la suiteIn the garden of my muse
This small hour, in the garden of my muse, I went myself from there. The fog extended, mixing lovingly with the fog, intertwining with the branches of the trees. Licking their feet, being coiled on their knotty chests, it was spread out over the bed of the dead leaves, over the wall of a sky without life. Its voluptuous forms became deformed under the caress of the wind. My hand was tightened meeting only the skin of a transitory body. My muse is thus. Losing my reference marks, I was inserted in the vaporous forest, according to a way without end, goal. I did not have any of it. Behind me, the night was closed again, enclosing me of its pressure. I felt his presence. It was enough for me.
Lire la suiteDans le jardin de ma muse
Ce petit matin, dans le jardin de ma muse, je m’en suis allé. La brume s’étendait, se mélangeant amoureusement au brouillard, s’enlaçant aux branches des arbres. Léchant leurs pieds, se lovant sur leurs torses noueux, elle s’étalait sur le lit des feuilles mortes, sur le mur d’un ciel sans vie. Ses formes voluptueuses se déformaient sous la caresse du vent. Ma main s’est tendue ne rencontrant que la peau d’un corps éphémère. Ma muse est ainsi. Perdant mes repères, je me suis enfoncé dans la forêt vaporeuse, suivant un chemin sans fin, sans but. Je n’en avais aucun. Derrière moi, la nuit se refermait, m’enserrant de son étreinte. Je ressentais sa présence. Elle me suffisait.
Lire la suiteThe eye of the day
This morning, the sun rose on the cellar of my secrecies. It entered gently, so slowly that I felt it to penetrate, preparing me with its intrusion, its questions. I hid in the darkest recesses of my insulation, the reducing one, not wanting to face this world of light which attacks me. In the cellar, under the stone vault, the calm, silence are my more faithful companions. It made fresh there whereas outside the dry grass, the flowers miss water, the sheets curl up. I see this sun going up white, aggressive, extreme. It will enter by the small window. That which is too high, that I, that I cannot reach cannot close. It is the eye of the day. This intrusive, inquisitive eye. The sun entered, I knew it. It lit the first stones of the window, then extended on those from the vault. I felt his heat. With it, the visitors of the day entered, discovering the underground crypt of the church where I am in hiding since so a long time. Always same remarks, same anxious glances. I have the habit. They are in search of phantom, of a phantom. They seek me, never see me. The days of summer, when the eye of the day violates my intimacy, I funds on the walls, run on the ground, slip between the stone slabs. I remain invisible.
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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
