The image of an artifice
The cold of these disappeared images sleeps. Stretch yourself the slow anguish of our lapses of memory. In the step making dizzy of a forever solidified time. Looking without seeing itself, nor to be able. To move beyond of a thought captive of the absence of blood in its arteries. Cry the cold of a death left all these bodies. Covered with clothes hiding their ravaged skins. Turned blue of cold, made feeble to be itself stale. In a pause that all opposes.To make accept the life. Whereas their reality became artificial. Cherish the cold of these hearts stiff. With the polished attitudes, the children wisely sitted. Wound the memory of those which lived in this place. Making believe that there remain nothing them. Just the factitious image of an artifice. Who does not have a talent of actress. Burn the cold to remain only in the black. With for only hope playing the game of the knowledge. To tell with alive false stories. Rich and happy people. Who do not even make envious.
Lire la suiteL’image factice d’un artifice
Dorme le froid de ces images évanouies. S’étire la lente agonie de nos oublis. Dans le pas entêtant d’un temps figé à jamais. Regardant sans se voir, ni pouvoir. Bouger au-delà d’une pensée prisonnière de l’absence de sang dans ses artères. Pleure le froid d’une mort sortie de tous ces corps. Recouverts d’habits cachant leurs peaux meurtries. Bleuies de froid, alanguis de s’être rassis. Dans une pause que tout oppose.Faire croire à la vie. Alors que leur réel est devenu artificiel. Caresse le froid de ces âmes transis. Aux attitudes polies, aux enfants sagement assis. Blesse le souvenir de ceux qui ont vécu en ce lieu. Faisant croire qu’il ne reste rien d’eux. Juste l’image factice d’un artifice. Qui n’a pas de talent d’actrice. Brûle le froid de rester seules dans le noir. Avec pour seul espoir de jouer le jeu du savoir. Conter aux vivants de fausses histoires. De gens riches et heureux. Qui ne rendent même pas envieux.
Lire la suiteOur hidden tears
In the cathedral of glass doze the bitter shades. Regret of our hidden tears. Not to be not left. Between the ground and the sea. Between these wild days and these frozen nights. Where we were held near. One of the other to heat us. But, I really any more do not remember these moments. There me remains only one scar about it. Ridge of doubts that I immured without artifice. In the book too quickly closed our lives. To flee, to forget or lie? I do not know any more, I do not remember if few things, it is true. Time passed. Trailing between the soft hope of our administered chloroform to dreams and the idea to protect them. Like, I had promised it to you. It is thus. I did not forget the promises that I had you ridges. These memories to be preserved without scorning them. Your smiles, our laughter. All that remains to me to have fun. To make pretense be merry whereas your absence is a painful evil. Will I have to tell you? Or to make pretense be happy? And to languish itself? From a time when we were both. Trailing in the cathedral of glass. Between its shades and its mysteries. Moved away from the ground, closer to stars and their lights. To invent a world where we would be queens and kings. Without subjects, just you and me. Without rule, nor law. Playing on the back of comets while howling with keep silent head. The tears of a bitter violin cry. Telling the memory of our dreams amazed. Between the cords of a boxing ring where our are delirious us led on the ground. Glances against glances carried by wild eyes. Fall asleep on the furnace bridge of the martyr the languor of our memories. Goods or bad leaving only the regret of our hidden tears. Not to be never left.
Lire la suiteNos larmes enfouies
Dans la cathédrale de verre sommeillent les ombres amères. Du regret de nos larmes enfouies. De n’être pas sorties. Entre la terre et la mer. Entre ces jours endiablés et ces nuits glacées. Où nous nous tenions près. L’un de l’autre pour nous réchauffer. Mais, je ne me souviens plus vraiment de ces moments. Il ne m’en reste qu’une cicatrice. Faîte de doutes que j’ai emmurés sans artifice. Dans le livre trop vite fermé de nos vies. Pour fuir, oublier ou mentir ? Je ne sais plus, je ne me souviens de si peu de choses, c’est vrai. Le temps est passé. Traînant entre le doux espoir de nos rêves chloroformés et l’idée de les protéger . Comme, je te l’avais promis. C’est ainsi. Je n’ai pas oublié les promesses que je t’avais faîtes. Ces souvenirs à conserver sans les mépriser. Tes sourires, nos rires. Tout ce qui me reste pour faire la fête. Faire semblant d’être joyeux alors que ton absence est un mal douloureux. Devrai-je te le dire ? Ou faire semblant d’être heureux ? Et se languir ? D’un temps où nous étions tous les deux. Traînant dans la cathédrale de verre. Entre ses ombres et ses mystères. Éloignés de la terre, plus proches des étoiles et de leurs lumières. A inventer un monde où nous serions reines et rois. Sans sujets, juste toi et moi. Sans règle, ni loi. Jouant sur le dos des comètes en hurlant à tue tête. Pleurent les larmes d’un violon amer. Contant le souvenir de nos rêves ébahis aujourd’hui groguis. Entre les cordes d’un ring où nos délires nous ont conduits à terre. Regards contre regards portés par des yeux hagards. S’endorment sur l’autel du martyr la langueur de nos souvenirs. Bons ou mauvais ne laissant que le regret de nos larmes enfouies. De n’être jamais sorties.
Lire la suiteTeddy bears
Remember these wooden horses. Letting you carry by the swirl of their horse-gear. Yes, remember. We went there by times of snow. Hand in hand giving of the kicks in the water puddle pools. Laughing, speaking high. You circling, me looking at itself. To make drunk You the body and the head. From these days repeating itself in a spirit of festival. We took the time, all our time. Without anybody to expect us or seek to understand us. A day ago, of night, nor even of trouble. We were alone in the large park with the closed grids being used to protect us. To remain with the shelter in our life. Different to be abandoned children. Dreaming You of a teddy bear that you could cuddle. Me, dreaming to offer it to you. Not having neither money, nor means of entering the store, just the only desire. To satisfy you. We returned from the park while passing in front of the window to the deadened bears. We looked them like children, them finding beautiful and mutineers. We observed them under the light believed until the morning. We were not there to see them to wake up nor to stretch itself. There remained only the power to think them. Rising, happy to find itself between of the same brothers and sisters destiny. Their life was a little ours, giving them names, nicknames. Without us to ask the question of knowing if the cold, the hunger could gain them. They were like us them children of a history without name. Like the division of a form of reason. They became close to us so far where one of them disappeared. I saw you. To Cry. To Touch by the absence of the missing. As if you had lost a brother or the memory of a father. I sought in the reflection of the pane your face, my image. There was nothing to see. As the bears we do not have history. Carrying the fate of dead children.
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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
