La lettre d’amour
Hier, ta lettre est arrivée. J’ai reconnu ton écriture, ses traits, fins, sa fragilité. Je ne l’attendais pas. Je ne l’attendais plus. Une enveloppe déchirée, des gestes maladroits abîmant les premières phrases; j’avais hâte de toi. Sur le papier blanc, les ombres de tes mots griffonnés à la va-vite, les ratures, les hésitations, toutes ces phrases jetées dans un cri. J’ai ressenti tes certitudes, compris tes interrogations, aimé tes affirmations. Tu t’es dévoilée. Pas de main passée sur le visage, pas de cheveux tombant sur tes yeux pour voiler ta flamme. Il y avait tous ces mots d’amour que tu as enfin osé prononcer. Avec l’encre de ton cœur, tu les as jetés sur le papier. Comme une folle, tu t’es lancée pour devancer ces doutes qui voulaient que tu attendes encore et encore. Ils ont imposé quelques ratures pour freiner ces sentiments qui leur font si peur. Ils frappent à la porte de ta bouche, piétinent à la pointe de ta plume. Un jour prochain, tu oseras les utiliser. Face à moi, sans lettre, avec un regard, un sourire, nous embarquerons sur la rivière de notre passion.
Lire la suiteLove letter
Your letter arrived to me yesterday. I recognized your writing, his brittleness. I did not expect it. I did not expect it any more. Quickly, too quickly, I wanted to go to the meeting of you. A torn envelope, awkward gestures damaging the first sentences; I was in a hurry of you. On the blank paper, the shades of your words scribbled with goes-quickly, the erasures, the hesitations, all these sentences thrown in a cry. I felt your certainty, your interrogations. More than ever, you revealed yourself. No the hand passed on a face to divert the attention, not wick of hair falling to veil your flame. There are in front of me the words which you dared to pronounce, throwing them to paper with the ink of your heart. You launched out like insane, to go quickly, double these doubts which would like that you wait still and still. They imposed some erasures for these too strong words which frighten them. They are with the door of your mouth, to the forefront of your feather. One day next, you will dare. Vis-a-vis me, without letter, with a glance, a smile, we will embark on the river of our passion.
Lire la suiteGothic and romantic
At the end of the road, at the end of the fog, there is this old church. We will join it at the fallen night. To Reach its doors to stop us, us to rest. So Many of other walkers did it before us. Direction their hearts which accompany us playing hide-and-seek in the fog recovering us. The branches of the trees drip of rain. The flowers violets carry diamond rivières. The volcanic black stones shine on the grassy ground. In the vast quiet extent, the birds do not plane any more. Sometimes, the sound of your steps recalls me your presence behind me. It is the last bond which binds me to you. We advance like two phantoms on the mounts abandoned. Our walk will end with the door of the old church, over there, so far it seems inaccessible. Silence is heavy, heavy. Lost, our eyes betray us without reference mark. Sometimes, a tree leaves the fog. Giant with the tentacular arms, thin with the emaciated body, it looks at us. Firm the eyes, hears the song of the angels which fly above us. Listen, yes listening. They are addressed to us. To go, go to burst some, to join them, run on the mounts, to plane on the valleys. More not to suffer, damage themselves to join dreams. To release, give up themselves, lie down on the way. Nobody will see us in the fog which buries us. To play with the angels in races without end. It is enough to tighten the hand. Yes, you can it. I want it. But the noise of your steps returns to me like an echo. You stumble, falls, I you raise you. It is necessary to continue, go, advance. The song of the angels disappeared. We are only again. Fog, cold, loneliness. The weight of the bag on the back. The breath runs. So many others lived it before us. To think, give a goal to resist, not to lie down, tighten the hand with the angels. At the end of the road, at the end of the fog, this old church appears. Hand in the hand, we join it. To Enter inside, to rest and like forever under the protection of the angels.
Lire la suiteGothique et romantique
Au bout du chemin, à la fin du brouillard, il y a cette vieille église. Nous la rejoindrons à la nuit tombée. Atteindre ses portes pour nous arrêter, nous reposer. Tant d’autres marcheurs l’ont fait avant nous. Sens leurs âmes qui nous accompagnent jouant à cache-cache dans la brume nous recouvrant. Les branches des arbres gouttent de pluie. Les fleurs violettes portent des rivières de diamants. Les pierres noires volcaniques luisent sur le sol herbu. Dans la vaste étendue silencieuse, les oiseaux ne planent plus. Parfois, le son de tes pas me rappelle ta présence derrière moi. C’est le dernier lien qui me lie à toi. Nous avançons comme deux fantômes sur les monts abandonnées. Notre marche prendra fin à la porte de la vieille église, là-bas, si loin qu’elle semble inaccessible. Le silence est lourd, pesant. Perdus, nos yeux nous trahissent sans repères. Parfois, un arbre sort du brouillard. Géant aux bras tentaculaires, maigre au corps décharné, il nous regarde. Ferme les yeux, entend le chant des anges qui volent au-dessus de nous. Écoute, oui écoute. Ils s’adressent à nous. Marcher, marcher à en crever, les rejoindre, courir sur les monts, planer sur les vallées. Ne plus souffrir, s’abîmer pour rejoindre des chimères. Lâcher, s’abandonner, se coucher sur le chemin. Personne ne nous verra dans le brouillard qui nous ensevelit. Jouer avec les anges dans des courses sans fin. Il suffit de tendre la main. Oui, tu le peux. Je le veux. Mais le bruit de tes pas me revient comme un écho. Tu trébuches, chutes, je te te relève. Il faut continuer, marcher, avancer. Le chant des anges s’est évanoui. Nous sommes seuls de nouveau. Le brouillard, le froid, la solitude. Le poids du sac sur le dos. Le souffle court. Tant d’autres l’ont vécu avant nous. Penser, se donner un but pour résister, ne pas se coucher, tendre la main aux anges. Au bout du chemin, à la fin du brouillard, apparaît cette vieille église. Main dans la main, nous la rejoignons. Entrer dedans, se reposer et s’aimer à jamais sous la protection des anges.
Lire la suiteThe poem of your words
On the blue lake as of your eyes, a drop of unhappiness beaded. You tightened your fists in front of your mouth to protect itself, not to show. Your head bent down to fold up you. Your fringe hid what it could. But the blue lake of your eyes darkened not being able anything more to prevent. Your body contracted. The drop of unhappiness became a tear of distress. In the storm of your feelings, you gave up yourself. The tear ran on your cheek, your small cavities depressed. Your tight fists could nothing any more control. To cry to exist. To cry to have liked too much. In a tear, the poem of your words is escaped.More text to be written, nobody to listen to it. A future in scrap, the abandonment for destiny. The rage lives your fists, the blue lake is filled of incandescent lava, the night rose. A shade recovers your face demolishes. You are beautiful but you forgot it. Tomorrow, later, the volcano will die out, its choked rage. Your enlightened eyes will find their glare under the gilded fringe. Your contracted fists will have opened with the unknown in another slipped hand. The paper pencil will again write the poems of your words on the small notebook. Raise, erases this chewed dye. Fight, resists not to sink. On the blue lake of your eyes a wind of revolt must blow.
Lire la suite
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
