The tears
On the windows of lights. There, where the tears of rain cry. We saw flowering of the trees, of the flowers, to live marvellous gardens. We lowered the weapons. It grew dark, we were in conflict. That often arrives to us. So often. In this enchanted universe, we found peace. A few moments, if little, just enough. To forget our many times re-sifted rancours, our reproaches. To advance between the bright colors of this artificial paradise. Fallen from the sky. To reconcile us. To hope that this moment will go until the end of the night. At this moment when the sun will come to extinguish the lights of this imaginary garden. We will throw with-outside. Tomorrow, there will be no more tears of rain to run on the deadened windows. The dark walls will find their gray colors. Our faces too. I know it. I feel it. It has been only the night that we manage to thread us inside. In this country where we exist without time, nor hour. One finds oneself like front. Gently. By loving us. But, the magic is exhausted, I see it, I am afraid of it. You want less to come. To flee, go elsewhere. The tears which will run one evening on the windows of light will be those of my pain.
Lire la suiteLes larmes
Sur les fenêtres de lumières. Là, où pleurent les larmes de pluie. Nous avons vu fleurir des arbres, des fleurs, vivre des jardins merveilleux. Nous avons baissé les armes. Il faisait nuit, nous étions en conflit. Cela nous arrive souvent. Si souvent. Dans cet univers enchanté, nous avons retrouvé la paix. Quelques instants, si peu, juste assez. Pour oublier nos rancœurs, nos reproches maintes fois ressassés. Pour avancer entre les couleurs vives de ce paradis artificiel. Tombé du ciel. Pour nous réconcilier. Espérer que ce moment ira jusqu’au bout de la nuit. A cet instant où le soleil viendra éteindre les lumières de ce jardin imaginaire. Nous jettera au-dehors. Demain, il n’y aura plus de larmes de pluie à couler sur les fenêtres endormies. Les murs sombres retrouveront leurs teintes grises. Nos visages aussi. Je le sais. Je le sens. Il n’y a que la nuit que nous parvenons à nous faufiler à l’intérieur. Dans ce pays où nous existons sans temps, ni heure. On se retrouve comme avant. Doucement. En nous aimant. Mais, la magie s’effrite, je le vois, j’en ai peur. Tu as moins envie de venir. Pour t’enfuir, aller ailleurs. Les larmes qui couleront un soir sur les fenêtres de lumière seront celles de ma douleur.
Lire la suiteMelancholic
This evening, we will walk in the streets of the city. Without goal. Carried by the wind of the winter. Pushed by the cold of the mountains. We, we will hide under a porch to avoid the snow-covered breath. To kiss us. The lights of festival will trace the way of our steps. Between the high stone walls. In front of the rare still enlightened windows. We will go from a slow step. Each day, we will run. All the time. Praise of slowness. Hope of softness. We will enter a soft torpor. Stuck one to the other, we will slip like phantoms on the brilliant ground. Our shades will not be able there to be reflected. This evening, we decided that we will be invisible. Alone. Irresistibly alone. To share this moment. Simply. Single. Melancholic.
Lire la suiteMélancolique
Ce soir, nous irons marcher dans les rues de la ville. Sans but. Portés par le vent de l’hiver. Poussés par le froid des montagnes. Nous, nous cacherons sous un porche pour éviter le souffle enneigé. Pour nous embrasser. Les lumières de fête traceront le chemin de nos pas. Entre les hauts murs de pierres. Devant les rares fenêtres encore éclairées. Nous irons d’un pas lent. Chaque jour, nous courrons. Tout le temps. Éloge de la lenteur. Espérance de la douceur. Nous entrerons dans une douce torpeur. Collés l’un à l’autre, nous glisserons comme des fantômes sur le sol brillant. Nos ombres ne pourront pas s’y refléter. Ce soir, nous avons décidé que nous serons invisibles. Seuls. Irrésistiblement seuls. Pour partager ce moment. Simple. Unique. Mélancolique.
Lire la suiteOur secrecies
The fog rose this morning, coming to cover the lake where we drowned our secrecies, our last sufferings. We thought them forever cast. But, this morning while coming to walk along dark banks, I saw going up on the surface what we had done everything to forget. A hand covered with algae, a white face, hair stuck above. A deformed mouth. A cry which cannot leave there. Our demons appeared, returned of deepest of our history, breaking this smooth memory that we got busy to manufacture. To protect us. To believe that we exist. To hope that the centuries will not have a catch on us. Between the trees of the park where we grew, where we so often played. In this place where we learned how to love us, to grow, to be afraid to lose us. On this lake where there was the accident. A fall of the boat, the water which enters my mouth, chokes me. My arms which beat to resist. My body which is inserted. The light of the life which dies out. For the last time your looked at face. Above, so much of fear, distress. It is not that image which I would have liked to carry. You were traumatized, terrified. Me, as much. Then, there was the calm, silence, this mattress of vase where I rested. Later, much later, I belonged myself to this body which had given up me. I left to your research. I found you only the evening when your body, used, agreed to let you leave to precipitate you in my arms. Since, we walk in this park like phantoms current after our missed lives. One did everything to forget this disastrous day where I drowned. But this morning, the fog awoke it to torture me, us to make suffer, us to recall that we must protect ourselves, us to like. Then, as insane, I run towards to throw you, me in your arms. To close the eyes, to believe that never nothing arrived. To cheat, falsify our reality. Since centuries, I know that we live in this world where never we will not manage to drown our secrecies, our last sufferings.
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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
