The sun rose lying
The sun rose lying. Laugher on the paddle of your uglinesses. Attenuating your insipidities. Devils of bad winds. By the wind engraved. Telling the story. Of a misfortune. With the mirror. Without decency. Looking at the reflection of an announced death. Engraving in the stone the bad face. Of a shared pain. By brothers of rancours. With the hearts filled of blacknesses. That the chain of the culpability. Will be able to never strangle. The sun rose lying. Illuminant your faces of pain. Carrying for always. The mask of a suffering which plows you. The heart, entrails. Engraving in the stone the fault. Of your lives without love.
Lire la suiteLe soleil s’est levé menteur
Le soleil s’est levé menteur. Rieur sur l’aube de vos laideurs. Atténuant vos fadeurs. Diables de vents mauvais. Par le vent burinés. Racontant l’histoire. D’un malheur. Au miroir. Sans pudeur. Regardant le reflet d’une mort annoncée. Gravant dans la pierre le visage mauvais. D’une douleur partagée. Par des frères de rancœurs. Aux âmes remplies de noirceurs. Que la chaine de la culpabilité. Ne pourra jamais étrangler. Le soleil s’est levé menteur. Éclairant vos visages de douleur. Portant pour toujours. Le masque d’une souffrance qui vous laboure. Le cœur, les entrailles. Gravant dans la pierre la faille. De vies sans amour.
Lire la suiteIn the illusion of the one day lights
In the illusion of the one day lights. Who never will not come to awake. Dust of our love. Are erased on an old parchment. Forgotten letters. Of a text without end. That a tired eagle for always. Carry the memory. Our words damaging itself to make use of it. Aligning itself on a yellowed sheet. That time has ravaged. Attenuating the out-of-date wound. Our forever hidden lives. In the tanned skin of pages. Not wise enough. Not to expose itself. With the bites of the single truth. We died not to tell more. On the blank sheets of our book. Our sad and beautiful hours. Who are added and got drunk. In the lapse of memory rebels. To erase our last traces. In spidery scrawl. On the blank sheet. Cruel abandonment which touches. To leave us only erosion. Our overflowings for speech.
Lire la suiteNos effusions pour oraison
Dans l’illusion des lumières d’un jour. Qui jamais ne viendra réveiller . Les poussières de notre amour. S’effacent sur un vieux parchemin. Les lettres oubliées. D’un texte sans fin. Qu’un aigle las pour toujours. Porte le souvenir. De nos mots s’abimant s’en servir. S’alignant sur une feuille jaunie. Que le temps a meurtri. Atténuant la blessure vieillie. De nos vies à jamais enfouies. Dans la peau tannée de pages. Pas assez sages. Pour ne pas s’exposer. Aux morsures de l’unique vérité. Nous sommes morts pour ne plus conter. Sur les feuilles blanches de notre livre. Nos heures tristes et belles. Qui s’additionnent et s’enivrent. Dans l’oubli rebelle. D’effacer nos dernières traces. En pattes de mouche. Sur la feuille blanche. Cruel abandon qui touche. De ne laisser de nous que l’érosion. De nos effusions pour oraison.
Lire la suiteIn lack of your deadened unhappiness.
In front of the yellowed photograph of our fled memories. I remain in lack of your deadened unhappiness. In the dream of this past which I cannot erase. I wander after the glare of our lives. In fight against these mornings which give birth to our lapses of memory. Leaving my memory alone vis-a-vis wear, the madness. Your absence is there. Leaving me only that. To recall me of you. Without ground, nor shovel to fill this infinite vacuum. I lose the faith. In us, me. Killing this lie to make future a truth. Where we could find ourselves. I do not want to imagine any more. To manufacture a copy of the past. To make as if it were true. Of a lie invented to advance. I cannot derive any more. Acceptor more to cross you. More to hear you. Little by little, I leave the meanders. Days spent to confuse the life, death. Seeking to link them in this impossible marriage. Who made ego a fossil. I you want some to have given up me. Drawing from this false hatred the force to raise me. Cheating with my feelings. Our feelings. I advance slowly. With the desire for turning over me. Precipitately. With the first noises of the past. Furiously. With the soft images of our old years. Because I cannot deny it. To have loved you to burst some. However, I am there upright. Without you. With knees in front of this hole. Where there is nothing any more but mud. Who goes up until me. Coming to cover the photograph yellowed with our fled memories. In the silence of the lapse of memory. I remain in lack of your deadened unhappiness.
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
