Les chants des anges
Les chants des anges se sont étendus sur le premier matin du monde. Souples comme le vol d’une colombe, ils glissèrent sur la terre, l’enveloppèrent.Puissants, forts, ils couvrirent le bruit de la bataille qui s’engagea entre la nuit et le jour. Les éclats de cette lutte montèrent jusqu’à nous. Nous étions collés l’un contre l’autre. Nous avions si peur. Les éclairs de leur combat crevèrent les ténèbres. Les montagnes jaillirent du sol. Les volcans crachèrent leur lave dans une mer écumante. Tu tremblais. Les vibrations de leur combat traversaient notre corps, nos âmes. Les chants des anges nous transperçaient. Ils voulaient nous sécuriser. Nous étions effrayés. Nos yeux pleuraient. Nos larmes avaient le goût de l’amertume. La disparition de cette nuit dans laquelle nous vivions depuis si longtemps. Le combat s’est arrêté avec la victoire du jour sur la nuit, l’arrivée du premier matin du monde. Il était blanc, laiteux. Paresseux, il s’est étiré en de longs nuages cotonneux. Il y avait la terre et les arbres. Le vent et le froid. Un sol blanc de givre. Lentement, le soleil perça derrière le voile de nuages. Nos yeux quittèrent les ténèbres. La lumière se fit de plus en plus vive, nous éclairant. Son éclat a habillé nos corps, les réchauffant. Surprenante, la sensation a été agréable, réconfortante. Pour la première fois, j’ai vu ton visage. Avant, tu n’étais qu’une ombre que mes doigts effleuraient, que mes yeux ne voyaient pas. Nous étions bien ainsi. Le chant des anges a modifié tant de choses. Aujourd’hui, l’on se voit. Tu es si belle. On se touche si peu maintenant pour se comprendre. Nous regardons au-delà des collines et des bois de cette soif nouvelle de savoir. Avant, dans le noir, nous avions besoin de si peu de choses. Notre faim est devenue insatiable. Nos querelles interminables. Nos choix, nos regards si différents. On se sépare peu à peu chaque matin un peu plus. Il nous reste encore ces derniers instants de nuit où l’on se souvient que nous étions des ombres collées l’une à l’autre.
Lire la suiteThe songs of the angels
The songs of the angels extended over the first morning from the world. Flexible like the flight of a dove, they slipped on the ground, wrapped it.Powerful, strong, they covered the noise of the battle which began between the night and the day. The glares of this fight went up to us. We were stuck one against the other. We had if fear. The flashes of their combat burst darkness. The mountains spouted out ground. The volcanos spit their lava in a foaming sea. You trembled. The vibrations of their combat crossed our body, our hearts. The songs of the angels transpierced us. They wanted to make safe us. We were frightened. Our eyes cried. Our tears had the taste of the bitterness. The disappearance of this night in which we lived since so a long time. The combat stopped with the victory of the day over the night, the arrival of the first morning of the world. It was white, milky. Lazy, it was stretched in long cottony clouds. There were the ground and the trees. Wind and cold. White ground of white frost. Slowly, the sun bored behind the veil of clouds. Our eyes left darkness. The light did increasingly sharp, us lighting. Its glare equipped our bodies, heating them. Surprising, the feeling was pleasant, comforting. For the first time, I saw your face. Front, you were not that a shade which my fingers skimmed, that my eyes did not see. We were well thus. The song of the angels modified so many things. Today, one sees oneself. You are so beautiful. One touches oneself if little now. We look beyond the hills and of the wood of this new thirst for knowing. Front, in the black, we required for if few things. Our hunger became insatiable. Our interminable quarrels. Our choices, our glances so different. One separates little by little each morning a little more. There remain to us still these last moments of night when one remembers that we were shades stuck one to the other.
Lire la suiteTomorrow morning
This night, a frozen shroud extended on the ground. It will not stop me. Beyond mud and frozen flacs, beyond my tiredness, I will walk to you. I owe it to you. For these days when we ran on the sand burning of the summer. For your absence. For your lack of you. For these bonds which are the roots of my reason. You live my thought. I take place only this to lodge you. Our practices are nothing any more but memories. A diaphanous veil recover them. It is unbearable for me. I cannot draw aside it. Each day, it thickens more and more. I hate it. The way our lives separated forever. To Come to find you. To divide. Tomorrow morning, in the cold and the whiteness of a cold paddle. Tomorrow morning, beyond the fog and from the contracted trees, I will go to you. I know that you expect me. My step is now slower. Do not judge me, I love you as much. You left, it is so a long time. Many snows of the winter covered the tomb with our passion. There remains to me only this stone where your name is engraved. It is there that I believe that you are. I make seeming. I lie myself. There remains to me only that to exist in the memory of you. Then, this frozen shroud which extended on the ground this night will not stop me. I will walk beyond mud and of the cold flacs. I will cross this fog of the winter which will be never enough thick to find you and to love you.
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Le linceul de l’hiver
Cette nuit, un linceul glacé s’est étendu sur la terre. Il ne m’arrêtera pas. Au delà de la boue et des flacs gelées, au delà de ma fatigue, je marcherai jusqu’à toi. Je te le dois. Pour ces jours où nous courions sur le sable brûlant de l’été. Pour ton absence. Pour ton manque de toi. Pour ces liens qui sont les racines de ma raison. Tu habites ma pensée. Je n’ai que ce lieu pour t’héberger. Nos habitudes ne sont plus que des souvenirs. Un voile diaphane les recouvrent. Il m’est insupportable. Je ne peux l’écarter. Chaque jour, il s’épaissit de plus en plus. Je le hais. Le chemin nos vies s’est séparé à jamais. Venir te retrouver. Partager. Demain matin, dans le froid et la blancheur d’une aube gelée. Demain matin, au delà du brouillard et des arbres contractés, j’irai jusqu’à toi. Je sais que tu m’attends. Mon pas est maintenant plus lent. Ne me juge pas, je t’aime tout autant. Tu es partie, il y a si longtemps. Les nombreuses neiges de l’hiver ont recouvert la tombe de notre passion. Il ne me reste que cette pierre où est gravé ton nom. C’est là que je crois que tu es. Je fais semblant. Je me mens. Il ne me reste que çà pour exister dans le souvenir de toi. Alors, ce linceul glacé qui s’est étendu sur la terre cette nuit ne m’arrêtera pas. Je marcherai au delà de la boue et des flacs gelées. Je franchirai ce brouillard de l’hiver qui ne sera jamais assez épais pour te retrouver et t’aimer.
Why I love you ?
Do you remember this walk where we were lost in wood ? Such a long time ago. You were cold, you approached me. The night of the winter fell between the large cold trees. You took my arm as you seized your headstock when child you were unhappy. You wanted something. Fragile, I felt you to hesitate. Did you ask me why I loved you? I know that you remember my answer. It surprised you. I told you that your question was poor, meaningless. I shocked you. Your arm contracted on mine. I felt your disapproval. I intertwined you. You wanted to escape to you, upset. However, you remained. My eyes fixed hold them. You saw all my answers. Lack of your presence when you are not there. All these landscapes which point out our escapades. Exchanged words which raise the stones recovering our memories. So many pieces of time on the web of spider of our lives. We wove it together between the branches of our passion. Then why, I love you? Asks me, how I love you? How does my life occur without you? Multiply your interrogations to bring you closer to my truth. Your questions, to be right, must be infinite. My answers are it. Release yourself from these needs so small, if restrictive. Be not satisfied with easy words, so much of times repeated, meaningless. That is to say demanding, excessive. Do not have a border. It is as that which we like.
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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
