Seul, je le suis comme tu le fus.
Mélancolie d’un soir. Sous le voile d’une nuit noire. Recouvrant ce passé au porte du désespoir. Entre regret et culpabilité. Avec le poids de ce péché. De t’avoir oubliée. Il y a si longtemps. Que je pourrais évacuer maintenant. En le jetant au vent. En le brûlant. En me mentant. Pour mieux respirer. Lavant mon esprit de cette pensée. Qui revient sans cesse. Avec la force de cette promesse. Que je t’ai faîte de m’attendre. Allant jusqu’à violer tes rêves pour te les prendre. Te laissant seule sur la terrasse de notre château. Attendant la venue de la nuit pour enterrer tes maux. Sombrant dans cet ennui. Recouvrant d’un voile noir ta mélancolie. D’avoir été trahie. Par mes promesses, mon absence, ta faiblesse. D’avoir espéré me changer. Je me suis enfui. Incapable d’assumer. Trouvant dans l’oubli une nouvelle patrie. Te laissant un au revoir dans le dernier de mes écrits. Où je t’ai une nouvelle fois trahie. Ce soir, à la porte de cette nuit de mélancolie. Je suis revenu. Regardant ce paysage triste vers lequel tu as souvent attendu. Mon retour, un signe. Qui ne sont jamais venus. Seul, je le suis comme tu le fus.
Lire la suiteThe unfinished requiem
There is in you a prohibited door. Behind which the ogre of your thoughts lives carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I have badly. There is on you this waxy dye. Who makes that we will be never happy. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. There is on you this contracted stiffness which prevents you from moving. Our children in the same padlocked pause. Behind this silhouette sinks observing you. I do not see his eyes. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. There is in you this life in inside. That I hope, that I suspect. To feel me less guilty before the culpability holds to ransom me. For me. For you. For our children. To be left time. Existing of their milky face. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. Making us unhappy beings. On the chess-board of a devil devouring our last wishes. Eaters of our dreams flown away to the skies. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. The louse of our hearts desynchronized. Being erased in an unfinished requiem. That nobody will come to listen. Canticle dismembered with the prayer whispered by repudiated angels. Singing to bury our bodies of leprous. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. How to repair all this evil? There is in you a prohibited door. Behind which the ogre of your thoughts lives carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I have badly. The fever goes up in me. Cold in my bubbling arteries. With this astonishing feeling. To see my body not moving more become waxy. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. I pushed the prohibited door. Entering your world like a hypocrite. Breaking the ogre of your thoughts carrying the roots of this evil. Who lives you. Until death. That I will be able to never make leave your body. I believed in it. I dreamed some. I had made the wish of it. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. I will be able to never save you. Just fixed to look at you. Stiff, cold, alive in you your feelings in the greatest secrecy. Without anything to divide. With the time which brought us closer in a separate pause. I would have liked to be the ogre of your thoughts carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I would not have badly any more.
Lire la suiteLe requiem inachevé
Il y a en toi une porte interdite. Derrière laquelle vit l’ogre de tes pensées portant les racines d’un mal. Qui t’habite. Répandant son corps vérolé dans le labyrinthe dans lequel tu t’es égarée. J’ai mal. Il y a sur toi ce teint cireux. Qui fait que nous ne serons jamais heureux. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissée seule exposée loin de nous deux. Il y a sur toi cette raideur contractée qui t’empêche de bouger. Nos enfants dans la même pause cadenassée. Derrière cette silhouette sombre vous observant. Je ne vois pas ses yeux. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissée seule exposée loin de nous deux. Il y a en toi cette vie en dedans. Que j’espère, que je soupçonne. Pour me sentir moins coupable avant que la culpabilité ne me rançonne. Pour moi. Pour toi. Pour nos enfants. D’être sortis du temps. Existant de leur visage laiteux. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissé seule exposée loin de nous deux. Faisant de nous des êtres malheureux. Sur l’échiquier d’un diable dévorant nos derniers vœux. Mangeurs de nos rêves envolés jusqu’aux cieux. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissé seule exposée loin de nous deux. Le pou de nos cœurs désynchronisé. S’effaçant dans un requiem inachevé. Que personne ne viendra écouter. Cantique démembré à la prière susurrée par des anges désavoués. Chantant pour enterrer nos corps de lépreux. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissé seule exposée loin de nous deux. Comment réparer tout ce mal ? Il y a en toi une porte interdite. Derrière laquelle vit l’ogre de tes pensées portant les racines d’un mal. Qui t’habite. Répandant son corps vérolé dans le labyrinthe dans lequel tu t’es égarée. J’ai mal. La fièvre monte en moi. Froide dans mes artères bouillonnantes. Avec cette sensation étonnante. De voir mon corps ne plus bouger devenu cireux. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissé seule exposée loin de nous deux. J’ai poussé la porte interdite. Entrant dans ton monde comme un hypocrite. Éventrant l’ogre de tes pensées portant les racines de ce mal. Qui t’habite. Jusqu’à la mort. Que je ne pourrai jamais faire sortir de ton corps. J’y croyais. J’en rêvais. J’en avais fait le vœu. Je me blâme. Je te blâme. De t’avoir laissé seule exposée loin de nous deux. Je ne pourrai jamais te sauver. Juste figé à te regarder. Raide, froide, vivant en toi tes sensations dans le plus grand secret. Sans rien à partager. Avec le temps qui nous a rapproché dans une pause séparée. J’aurais voulu être l’ogre de tes pensées portant les racines d’un mal. Qui t’habite. Répandant son corps vérolé dans le labyrinthe dans lequel tu t’es égarée. Je n’aurais plus mal.
Lire la suiteThe slow repetition of your fingers on the piano
The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Enter to deepest of me. Shelling the partition of a phantom without interest. The cruelty of your notes plunged in my broken up body strike the mud of my nauseas. Splashing an image which I do not dare any more to face. That of the abandonment of all these things in which I believed. Standard of my thoughts, carried ahead like a crusader. Without cause. Just because. Of all my cowardices. The throbbing melody of our abandonment is repeated. Note after note. Until the end of the keys of this piano of time. On which we bickered so much. With blow of notes distorted by our cruelty. That you spell. Like the litany of our sins. I hear their voices. Who point us finger. Showing us. Stronger than you, stronger than us. When we were insane. Hacking us in fights flared up like wolves. Carnivores, grabbed by a life which we had forgotten to reward. Times spent loving us. For better controlling all these futilities among which we were mislaid. The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Is the statement of a repentance. Who comes tardily reviving this pain which launches me. Planted in my entrails in battle beyond the evil to the edge of the fault. Where the vacuum calls me. Each one in our box. With these truths which we do not want to share any more. Without us to separate in order to anything save to us. Drowned in a swirl of vase. Finding in hatred the reason to root our sorrows. The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Penetrate each day a little more at the bottom of invading me, me. Present, pressing, darkening my perception of time. In a slow and progressive wear which lasts. That that you wanted, I am sure. Puppet dancing dismembered on these notes which you shell. Since this time when we decided to drive out the love of our veins.
Lire la suiteA cry in the night
A cry in the night. Come from the bottom of darkness. Tearing off me from the bed. Violating my dormant dreams. In a funeral complaint. I thought of you. With your pains, with your sighs, these triviums which made your daily newspaper. With this life of which you wanted to pose the last point. I wandered. Parts in parts, the moon accompanying me. Clouds extinguishing it. With your research slowly. Without hope to find you. Without the need to deplore. Just to trail with this cry reasoning in my head. I wanted to believe that I had invented it. To give to me the impression of still living at your sides. I had learned how to hear your complaints, to understand them. Like codes established between us. To preserve this last space of intimacy that nobody could take. One tried to cheat with the others until the end. I managed from there to hope for your cries. To know that you breathed, that a breath traversed you. There remained to me only your hands to touch you, not to break you. There was no more that your eyes to point out the way to me in which you liked to look at me. A cry in the night. Come from the bottom of darkness. Tearing off me from the bed. Violating my dormant dreams. It is what it remains me to remember me. To cherish this melancholy of the days of rain. Where we linked ourselves. Through the fields and drills. Going, us mislaying behind the curtain of fog as shades. In search of our sun in these dark days. Only, abandoned with happiness to be itself found. I miss you. You know it. I say it enough to you. Your silences are the slap of your absence. It was imposed to us. By time, the erosion of our damaged carcasses. I do not have rancour. We knew that there would be a term with our happiness. I give up myself sometimes on your tomb. Of some tears, some flowers. With this insane idea that my sorrow will awake your heart.
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
