In the sleep of the light of time
On the wood chimney. I placed a lamp. To shine, remember me you. It will not be enough. However, it is all that I found. Because, I know that I will forget. The memory of you. Your words, your eyes, your ideas. All that there was in you. I would not like that is unobtrusive. But, it is thus, I cannot nothing make there. Each day, a little more, we move away one from the other. They was front, it was yesterday. Today, we have nothing any more but one past. It is what joins together us. At the end of the night. In the sleep of the light of time. I want to remember you. As if they were front.
Lire la suiteLe sommeil de la lumière du temps
Sur la cheminée de bois. J’ai placé une lampe. Pour briller, me souvenir de toi. Ce ne sera pas assez. Pourtant, c’est tout ce que j’ai trouvé. Car, je sais que je vais oublier. Le souvenir de toi. Tes mots, tes yeux, tes idées. Tout ce qu’il y avait en toi. Je ne voudrais pas que cela soit effacé. Mais, c’est ainsi, je ne peux rien y faire. Chaque jour, un peu plus, nous nous éloignons l’un de l’autre. C’était avant, c’était hier. Aujourd’hui, nous n’avons plus qu’un passé. C’est ce qui nous réunit. Au bout de la nuit. Dans le sommeil de la lumière du temps. Je veux me souvenir de toi. Comme si c’était avant.
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I aspire to it
I like your idea that a tree can flower a whole life without never dying. I like this idea that a life can not have of end. I had not imagined it. I had not dared to think it. That certain trees can be touched of a divine finger. This idea comes from deepest from your desire. Carrying your grace of the impossible one. I aspire to it. Scenting futile petrols, if fragile. Inaccessible. Flowers swept by the wind of the summer, struck by the breath of the winter months. All around the tree, it has only joy and misery there. He remain right, beautiful and proud. Until the end of the mystery. Of a life without dying. Your idea. Is it of you? I aspire to it. Do you have the power to offer it to us? Does the blood of this life where nothing die out? The complaint of the sheets damaging itself on the shroud of the autumn. The moaning of branches torn by the storm. Do you have this force to be able to act? For all to slow down. Before the bells of death do not sound? I aspire to it.
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J’y aspire
J’aime ton idée qu’un arbre puisse fleurir toute une vie sans jamais mourir. J’aime cette idée qu’une vie peut ne pas avoir de fin. Je ne l’avais pas imaginé. Ni osé le penser. Que certains arbres puissent être touchés d’un doigt divin. Cette idée vient du plus profond de ton désir. Portant ta grâce de l’impossible. J’y aspire. Se parfumant d’essences futiles, si fragiles. Inaccessibles. Les fleurs balayées par le vent de l’été, frappées par le souffle des mois d’hiver. Tout autour de l’arbre, il n’y a que joie et misère. Lui reste droit, beau et fier. Jusqu’au bout du mystère. D’une vie sans mourir. Ton idée. Est-elle de toi ? J’y aspire. As-tu le pouvoir de nous l’offrir ? Je le désire. Le sang de cette vie où rien ne s’éteint ? Qui ne connaît pas de fin. La plainte des feuilles s’abîmant sur le linceul de l’automne. Le gémissement de branches déchirées par la tempête. As-tu cette force de pouvoir agir ? Pour tout ralentir. Quitte à nous endormir. Avant que les cloches de la mort ne sonnent. J’y aspire.
Lire la suiteSo much waves came to die
Close of us, so much waves came to die at the edge of the beach. On this cold sand of the winter. Who does not have any more the old one. In the silver plated night. Of a starry sky. With the fresh wind. Come to sweep our practices. In a soft prelude. At the bottom of this enlightened castle. Drawn up at the bottom of the beach. Illuminant our meeting again. After all our battles. We became wiser. Like the storm. Of these foaming waves. Menaçantes. In the distance. Who lose of their force while approaching the end. On this sand that us fullers. Where, we, we find. After so much of drifts on the scum of our storms. It was yesterday. It is not so far. I have it still at the head. I am not if to trust. Of these quarrels without end. With the bitter taste. With the futile heart. For a hell. Useless. We, we are stray. But, this evening, close to us, so much to waves came to die at the edge of the beach. Recalling Us by their complaints. With our fears. Erasing these letters of our evils. That we had traced. On the sand of the beach. That a wave of a last blow of kidney. With known to write the word of the end. So that finally we find ourselves hand in the hand.
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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
