Your demons
In the cold of the winter, on the crystals of freezing, the trace of your steps behind you, you from will go away. To go in the cold, in the middle of the incipient night, to mix your demons among the shades. In the cold of the winter, you will be alone. In the middle of the cold trees, drowned in the black, the darkness of the forest will equip you. More to show you, not to face your incapacities more, in this retirement you will escape. In the cold of the winter, it will remain if little you. Your demons hidden in the roots of your reason. Never will give up you. In the cold of the winter, the silence of the ground, you will not be able to escape to them. Your body will suffer to understand it. To have badly to exist. To worry to breathe. To fight not to choke. Until where will you have to go? At the end of the cold of the winter, it will remain of you only the trace of your steps. To retrogress for all to change. To lay down You, expect the return of the summer. On the crystals of freezing you will have to decide to you. You will not be able to escape from it. Coiled in you, your demons will laugh again at these indecisions. In the cold of the winter, on the crystals of freezing, you will not be able to eliminate them. In the cold of the winter, the silence of the ground, you will only learn how to overcome them.
Lire la suiteTes démons
Dans le froid de l’hiver, sur les cristaux de gel, la trace de tes pas derrière toi, tu t’en iras. Marcher dans le froid, au cœur de la nuit naissante, mélanger tes démons parmi les ombres. Dans le froid de l’hiver, tu seras seule. Au milieu des arbres gelés, noyée dans le noir, l’obscurité de la forêt t’habillera.
Lire la suiteI think of you
If you could hear me, I would tell you to tighten the hands towards this setting sun. To look at taking shape on the sea of clouds your name, your first name. I would shout you to seize this world which extends. It is with your image, make beauty, of infinite, compassion. I would push you with tightening the hands towards this gold sun. Its color in the light of your hair. Its magnificence has your pace. Seize it, steals it, carries it like a conquistador. Flee with for eternity. Become eagle, extend your wings. Plane above mountains and of the plains, bathes in the depth of this sky. Time had just penetrated by the gold door in its vastness. To taste salt, to delight you of it of his honey. But, you are not here. I think of you as soon as a thing fills with wonder me.
Lire la suiteJe pense à toi
Si tu pouvais m’entendre, je te dirais de tendre les mains vers ce soleil couchant. De regarder se dessiner sur la mer de nuages ton nom, ton prénom. Je te crierais de saisir ce monde qui s’étend. Il est à ton image, fais de beauté, d’infini, de compassion. Je te pousserais à tendre les mains vers ce soleil d’or. Sa teinte a la lumière de ta chevelure. Sa magnificence possède ton allure. Saisis-le, vole-le, emporte-le comme un conquistador. Enfuies-toi avec pour l’éternité. Deviens aigle, étends tes ailes. Plane au-dessus des montagnes et des plaines, baigne-toi dans la profondeur de ce ciel. Le temps est venu de pénétrer par la porte d’or dans son immensité. D’en goûter le sel, de te délecter de son miel. Mais, tu n’es pas-là. Je pense à toi dès qu’une beauté m’émerveille.
Our delivery
With the gulls, I will give this small package. That in which we locked up all our secrecies. Solicitors or unavowed. That does not have any more importance. With the gulls, I will ask to fly away. To plane towards these remote regions where they will deposit it. It will be our chance. With the gulls, I will entrust our need to escape to us. They will plane to this place where one cannot walk any more. It will be our last hope. With the gulls, I will give our light luggage. They will stick to carry it, to transport it with respect. It will be our ultimate lovesong. With the gulls, I will ask to accompany them by the thought. Beyond the floods, storms, towards the setting one turning red of a sun of summer. Slipped into the brittleness of our secrecies. That has such an amount of importance. It does not remain us any more but they to come to visit us. For each morning a pinched bread end. In front of our window, they bring the innovations to us. That summarizes our impotence. To fly, plane, on their transported wings. To look at the world being spread out below. Not touch, just to observe it. That will be our chance. Until the end of the world to project itself. To leave our window with the skimped universe. To project itself, to have plans, the ultimate one, the last. That will be done without arrogance. Just to fly away.For still vibrating. For still breathing. It will be our delivery.
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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
