And I believe you …
You say that there is no more music in your head. That your life is stretched without end beyond your memories. That your heart is wearied to beat to the rhythm of meanders of your existence. I listen to you. To only hear you in this long corridor of your absences. There are sometimes so many silences. Who have the weight of sentences. Carrying in them the cold of this frozen sun which shines all over there. In the big room of ball. There, where you liked to whirl. There, where I met you. In your bluish dress. It is this memory which I took along. Who carries me, makes me pitch. Avoiding drowning me. In the black colours of your glances. But it is too late. To believe that this sun which is stretched on the parquet floor. Is our last summer. A long time ago that it was deleted. Making us beings without future and past. Evaporated that nobody sees passing. We, we speak without us to touch. Without remembering. Heat, of its softness, its effects. On our stuck skins. That makes you cry. I cannot prevent you from pouring these tears. That nobody sees. It is our drama. Poor phantoms. You say that there is no more music in your head. And, I believe you.
Lire la suiteEt, je te crois…
Tu dis qu’il n’y a plus de musique dans ta tête. Que ta vie s’étire sans fin au-delà de tes souvenirs. Que ton cœur se lasse de battre au rythme des méandres de ton existence. Je t’écoute. Seul à t’entendre dans ce long couloir de tes absences. Il y a parfois tant de silences. Qui ont le poids de sentences. Portant en elles le froid de ce soleil glacé qui brille tout là-bas. Dans la grande salle de bal. Là, où tu aimais tournoyer. Là, où je t’ai rencontrée. Dans ta robe bleutée au profond décolleté. C’est ce souvenir que j’ai emmené. Qui me porte, me fait tanguer. Évitant de me noyer. Dans les teintes noires de tes regards. Mais il est trop tard. De croire que ce soleil qui s’étire sur le parquet. Est notre dernier été. Il y a longtemps qu’il s’est effacé. Faisant de nous des êtres sans avenir et sans passé. Évaporés que personne ne voit passer. Nous, nous parlons sans nous toucher. Sans se rappeler. De la chaleur, de sa douceur, de ses effets. Sur nos peaux collées. Cela te fait pleurer. Je ne peux t’empêcher de verser ces larmes. Que personne ne voit. C’est notre drame. Pauvres fous, pauvres fantômes. Tu dis qu’il n’y a plus de musique dans ta tête. Et, je te crois.
Lire la suiteUntil death
Make laugh to me. Make suffer to me. Play of me to weaken about it. Enjoyed each day until your last sigh. I want to see you boiling. Of rage or pleasure. Since it is necessary to vomitting some or to curse me. Leave the window of your heart open. Your only future. Until dying about it. I am intransigent. One evening of festival. Accommodating in a beautiful apartment. Cold of the winter, the heat of the summer. Corrosive you. Chains of cobweb. Being spread out from the top of walls to the slats of the parquet floor. I never entered there. But me was told. The cruel death of an idea. That to like before being misled. At the point to throw itself on the paving stones to burst some. I know that you can play about it. Of a detached attitude. Even exaggerated. Make laugh to me. Make suffer to me. Play of me to weaken about it. Give me by making me believe that you can begin again. Without hesitating. For better withdrawing you. Later. When we are in the black. Without hope. To believe in it more. I do not want to see it. Leave the window of your heart open. I hate the storms. Do not make the head. It is thus. You say that it is small. And then? To love you am I wrong? You have remorses. To think that you cheeks with the fate. Make laugh to me. Make suffer to me. To love you I know that I am not wrong. Without remord. Until death.
Lire la suiteJusqu’à la mort
Fais-moi rire. Fais-moi souffrir. Joue de moi à en défaillir. Joui de chaque jour jusqu’à ton dernier soupir. Je veux te voir bouillir. De rage ou de plaisir. Quitte à en vomir ou me maudire. Laisse la fenêtre de ton cœur ouverte. Ton seul avenir. Jusqu’à en mourir. Je suis intransigeant. Un soir de fête. Accueillant dans un bel appartement. Le froid de l’hiver, la chaleur de l’été. Te mordant. Des chapelets de toile d’araignées. S’étalant du haut des murs jusqu’aux lattes du parquet. Je n’y suis jamais entré. Mais on m’a raconté. La mort cruelle d’une idée. Celle d’aimer avant d’être trompé. Au point de se jeter sur les pavés pour en crever. Je sais que tu peux en jouer. D’une attitude détachée. Voire exagérée. Fais-moi rire. Fais-moi souffrir. Joue de moi à en défaillir. Donne-moi en me faisant croire que tu peux reprendre. Sans hésiter. Pour mieux te retirer. Plus tard. Quand nous serons dans le noir. Sans espoir. De ne plus y croire. Je ne veux le voir. Laisse la fenêtre de ton cœur ouverte. Je hais les tempêtes. Ne fais pas la tête. C’est ainsi. Tu dis que c’est petit. Et alors ? De t’aimer ai-je tort ? Tu as des remords. De penser que tu joues avec le sort. Fais-moi rire. Fais-moi souffrir. De t’aimer je sais que je n’ai tort. Sans remord. Jusqu’à la mort.
The last morning
A mystery. Gravity of the air. Who surrounds us. We imprisons. To breathe. To exist. Not to choke more. To find air. To leave this mystery. Who dismays us. Low than covers over with soil. So near to the hell. To exist. To breathe. To touch itself. To tighten itself. To go up. Towards the sun. Who sparkles. Rebel. Behind. The barrier. Clouds. A mirage? Or is this the age? To believe in these dreams. Bitter notes. Of a detuned piano. By so much of years. To be struck, martyrized. Our aggravated fingers. Do not make us any more waltz. To breathe. To exist. Repeated. Y to think constantly. To maintain the mystery. Hell. Our old years. With the damaged bodies. With the light spirit. Choked. By our rusted carcasses. Incompetents to move. In gravity of the air. With the ground odor. Where we will lie. Without being gone behind. The barrier. Clouds. Where sparkles. This sun. Without similar. With the honey taste. To exist. To breathe. To still believe that one is true. Equipped with our cowardice. Who so often protected us. To conceal us. Not to assume. This morning. It is not used any more for nothing. It is the end. No more other following day ago. Right this last morning. In the mystery. Gravity of the too heavy air to breathe to exist.
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
