The first sun of the world rising.
I would like to remember me these words which made us shiver. Sat on the beach, in front of the foaming sea. To play to be made fear. Until the end of the night. Swept by the beam of the large white headlight. Being spread out over the sea of gray clouds. You saw there the trace of faces of the past. You told me their history. Ridges of soft words to the bitter tears. Whose lapse of memory erased the sound of their voices. There remains nothing any more but you. To make them speak. On the sky of a partition cherished by the sound watering of a languorous piano. There is also a violin which cries the loneliness of its trouble. We were well both. Joined, one with the other. Loans to be shivered. Under the cold wind come from the ocean. There was with far the boats which pitched. Dancing on the complaint of waves breaking while foaming. Your helping hand to retain them, carry them. In sand, end of the finger, I drew the face of your heart. If complex. Carved by tortures of your devils. Set ablaze in the heat of your passions. I shivered. Frightened. I was there too for that. To hear the howl of the wind. To Feel the face to burn by the sand punctures. To protect Me along you. To Like that. Without understanding. Without seeking to understand. Until the end of the night. Beyond the cold, sleep, of this inexorable fight against the numbness. I wanted to resist. At your sides. To see the first sun of the world rising. You promised to me that it was going to arrive.
Lire la suiteLe premier soleil du monde
Je voudrais me souvenir de ces mots qui nous faisaient frissonner. Assis sur la plage, devant la mer écumante. A jouer à se faire peur. Jusqu’au bout de la nuit. Balayée par le faisceau du grand phare blanc. S’étalant sur la mer de nuages gris. Tu y voyais la trace de visages du passé. Tu me racontais leur histoire. Faîtes de mots doux aux larmes amères. Dont l’oubli a effacé le son de leurs voix. Il ne reste plus que toi. Pour les faire parler. Sur le ciel d’une partition caressée par le son larmoyant d’un piano langoureux. Il y a aussi un violon qui pleure la solitude de son ennui. Nous étions bien tous les deux. Accolés, l’un à l’autre. Prêts à frissonner. Sous le vent froid venu de l’océan. Il y avait au loin les bateaux qui tanguaient. Dansant sur la plainte de vagues se brisant en écumant. Ta main tendue pour les retenir, les porter. Dans le sable, du bout du doigt, je dessinais le visage de ton âme. Si complexe. Sculpté par les tortures de tes diables. Embrasés dans le feu de tes passions. Je frissonnais. Apeuré. J’étais là aussi pour çà. Pour entendre le hurlement du vent. Sentir le visage brûler par les piqures de sable. Me protéger le long de toi. Aimer çà. Sans comprendre. Sans chercher à comprendre. Jusqu’au bout de la nuit. Au-delà du froid, du sommeil, de cette lutte inexorable contre l’engourdissement. J’ai voulu résister. A tes côtés. Pour voir le premier soleil du monde se lever. Tu m’as promis qu’il allait arriver.
In the sleep of the light of time
On the wood chimney. I placed a lamp. To shine, remember me you. It will not be enough. However, it is all that I found. Because, I know that I will forget. The memory of you. Your words, your eyes, your ideas. All that there was in you. I would not like that is unobtrusive. But, it is thus, I cannot nothing make there. Each day, a little more, we move away one from the other. They was front, it was yesterday. Today, we have nothing any more but one past. It is what joins together us. At the end of the night. In the sleep of the light of time. I want to remember you. As if they were front.
Lire la suiteLe sommeil de la lumière du temps
Sur la cheminée de bois. J’ai placé une lampe. Pour briller, me souvenir de toi. Ce ne sera pas assez. Pourtant, c’est tout ce que j’ai trouvé. Car, je sais que je vais oublier. Le souvenir de toi. Tes mots, tes yeux, tes idées. Tout ce qu’il y avait en toi. Je ne voudrais pas que cela soit effacé. Mais, c’est ainsi, je ne peux rien y faire. Chaque jour, un peu plus, nous nous éloignons l’un de l’autre. C’était avant, c’était hier. Aujourd’hui, nous n’avons plus qu’un passé. C’est ce qui nous réunit. Au bout de la nuit. Dans le sommeil de la lumière du temps. Je veux me souvenir de toi. Comme si c’était avant.
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I aspire to it
I like your idea that a tree can flower a whole life without never dying. I like this idea that a life can not have of end. I had not imagined it. I had not dared to think it. That certain trees can be touched of a divine finger. This idea comes from deepest from your desire. Carrying your grace of the impossible one. I aspire to it. Scenting futile petrols, if fragile. Inaccessible. Flowers swept by the wind of the summer, struck by the breath of the winter months. All around the tree, it has only joy and misery there. He remain right, beautiful and proud. Until the end of the mystery. Of a life without dying. Your idea. Is it of you? I aspire to it. Do you have the power to offer it to us? Does the blood of this life where nothing die out? The complaint of the sheets damaging itself on the shroud of the autumn. The moaning of branches torn by the storm. Do you have this force to be able to act? For all to slow down. Before the bells of death do not sound? I aspire to it.
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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
