One night when time changes
One night when time changes. Shades, forms, reference marks. One night when very articulates itself. Differently, abruptly. Extinguishing the lights. Hugging our prayers. In vague murmurs. The head to be knocked against the walls. While resting not to fall. With triviums, details. Staggering before sinking. With deepest of a fault. Traced with blows of cutter. In the bitter skin. From this night when time changes. When the heart knocks in the vacuum. That the steps move back. In the opposite direction of a will. Skinned by damage itself. With the erosion of the years. In the slow repetition of the depression of a time. Where the trees and the monuments yield. That the dreams are curved. Under the yoke of the crushing of an oppression. Entering while penetrating. One night when time changes. Under the cane. Of a pause or a stop in the rustle of the wind. Flight of a bee. A softness without similar. Who takes care, who bewitches. Nothing moves. Not even the crack in the wall. Not even the red tear. With the colors of blood. Oozing of the suffering of the years. Run the one night old honey when any rocker. Writing the moment in capital letter. At the end of the tended finger. Tracing on the sky of the words to be read. Like peace or love for always.
Lire la suiteUne nuit où tout bascule
Une nuit où tout bascule. Les ombres, les formes, les repères. Une nuit où tout s’articule. Différemment, brusquement. Éteignant les lumières. Étreignant nos prières. Dans de vagues murmures. La tête à se cogner contre les murs. En s’appuyant pour ne pas tomber. A des riens, des détails. Titubant avant de sombrer. Au plus profond d’une faille. Tracée à coups de cutter. Dans la peau amère. De cette nuit où tout bascule. Quand le cœur cogne dans le vide. Que les pas reculent. Dans le sens inverse d’une volonté. Écorchée à force de s’abîmer. A l’érosion des années. Dans la lente répétition de l’affaissement d’un temps. Où les arbres et les monuments se plient. Que les rêves se courbent. Sous le joug de l’écrasement d’une oppression. Entrant en s’insinuant. Une nuit où tout bascule. Sous la férule. D’une pause ou d’un arrêt dans le bruissement du vent. Le vol d’une abeille. Une douceur sans pareil. Qui veille, qui ensorcelle. Rien ne bouge. Pas même la fissure dans le mur. Pas même la larme rouge. Aux couleurs de sang. Suintant de la souffrance des ans. Coule le miel d’une nuit où tout bascule. Écrivant l’instant en lettre majuscule. Au bout du doigt tendu. Traçant sur le ciel des mots pour être lus. Comme paix ou amour pour toujours.
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Perhaps now or tomorrow?
There are not any more movements, but one pause solidified by the years. Who run out slowly, irremediably. The face of death carved violently with the rage which a dog which bites. To run away themselves, protect themselves, escape. The rain and the wind Strike. Since so a long time that unrelentingly. The features of faces are erased indefatigably. There are nothing any more but forms remembering. Of their ultimate movement of front. When the light died out in the eyes of dying. At the moment when time was blocked. In a last will. The rock twisting, becoming deformed while metamorphosing itself. Under the blows of corrosive scissors. Steal the blade at the sharp edges. Shear iron in the internal organs of the stone. It was formerly, it was yesterday, so far now. In front of a handful of people moving away while crying. Remain, the layout, the forms of a symbol, the draft of a parabola. Changeable, fragile, slender. There are not any more movements, but one pause solidified by the years. The complaint of all these torments. Standardized by seeing them. Weakened by fleeing them. It wants this there to run, to curse them. Carrying on them a certain idea of the end. Perhaps now or tomorrow?
Lire la suitePeut-être maintenant ou demain ?
Il n’y a plus de mouvements, qu’une pause figée par les ans. Qui s’écoulent lentement, irrémédiablement. Le visage de la mort sculpté violemment avec la rage qu’un chien qui mord. Pour se sauver, se protéger, s’échapper. Frappent la pluie et le vent. Depuis si longtemps qu’inexorablement. S’effacent les traits de visages inlassablement. Il n’y a plus que des formes se souvenant. De leur ultime mouvement d’avant. Quand la lumière vint s’éteindre dans les yeux des mourants. A l’instant où s’est bloqué le temps. Dans un dernier testament. La roche se tordant, se déformant en se métamorphosant. Sous les coups de ciseaux mordants. Vole la lame aux bords tranchants. Cisaille le fer dans les viscères de la pierre. C’était autrefois, c’était hier, si loin maintenant. Devant une poignée de gens s’éloignant en pleurant. Reste, le tracé, les formes d’un symbole, l’esquisse d’une parabole. Versatile, fragile, gracile. Il n’y a plus de mouvements, qu’une pause figée par les ans. La plainte de tous ces tourments. Banalisés en les voyant. Fragilisés en les fuyant. Il y a cette envie de courir, de les maudire. Portant sur eux une certaine idée de la fin. Peut-être maintenant ou demain ?
Lire la suiteA piece of you and me
Sung in German or English perhaps in Italian, I do not know any more. The black opera is stretched listlessly on the keyboard of the organ, played by the phantoms of our memories, I do not remember more. Remain the unfinished text of skinned words of fear of being marked. Able to open doors which one will not be able to close again. Like the fear, the love, the friendship. I see you terrorized almost curled up. Paralysed with the idea of having to launch you. To imagine what will be the end of this wild text. That unrelentingly the melody brings closer towards this wall where we are prostrate. I do not know, I do not know any more. Reason the notes without life of a black opera exposing our sufferings. I do not know, I do not know any more. If the melody finds in its repetition the reasons of our castration. This sidereal vacuum wrapping us towards a fatal outcome. Vibrate in me an animal start. To escape to us. To Run, flee. To safeguard us. To Leap, not to die. To exist. In your eyes, I want it. Do you wish It? I do not know, I do not know any more. The black opera undulates, curves, on the white ones and the black ones of the keyboard. Cherished by the clone of a human being placed there to play the utilities. There were so many reasons of us to go from there. However, we remained. To listen to beat our hearts. Choked by this fear of leaving us. We are used finding in the routine the force to support us. Is this the beginning of the love for always? I do not know, I do not know any more. There is this unhappiness evaporating black opera. This form of despair which passes on us like a rolling mill. Leaving on the ground short periods of you. Short periods of me. Some were stuck, attracted each other. You said magnetized. As if that could satisfy you. I subscribe to this good idea. There will remain always fusional part of us. Almost eternal? I do not know, I do not know any more. The black opera stopped. There is this heavy silence like a call. This vacuum which aspires to us. I am not afraid, I am not afraid any more. Holding in hand a piece of you and me.
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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
