At the evening of your life
At the evening of your life, in the large park with the ravaged trees, you will walk among the shades. The fear will have left you, carrying your phantoms, your dark moments. At the evening of your life, you will walk on gently released of all your futilities. They made you vibrate. Te maintained among the alive ones. You do not have of them any more time. To return to essence. More to lie you, hide you before climbing with the sky. At the evening of your life, all became so easy. Why wasn’t this to it poor imbecile before? Be not made suffer, you do not have of it any more the leisure. The time of the past is completed, neither hatred, nor regrets. You could choose, to decide. At the evening of your life, you will be what you were. The balance is neither good, nor bad. The charts of accounts do not exist. Your light luggage. Do not tremble, the shades will not attack you. They are the stages of your life, those which you missed. It appointment there missed such an amount of. Your life were you so long, did forget? Filled of meanders, you so often tortured it. At the evening of your life, you will leave with this past. It is not there to encumber you, just to recall you. It will be your to let pass. At the end of will the road, they require of you which you ace be? Do not seek, cheating not. Say, speaks to them their about us, our love, all that. At the evening of your life, your eyes will shine still for the last time. It will be your truth. Our secrecy.
Lire la suiteAu soir de ta vie
Au soir de ta vie, dans le grand parc aux arbres meurtris, tu marcheras parmi les ombres. La peur t’aura quitté, emportant tes fantômes, tes heures sombres. Au soir de ta vie, tu chemineras doucement libéré de toutes tes futilités. Elles te faisaient vibrer. Te maintenaient parmi les vivants. Tu n’en as plus le temps. Revenir à l’essentiel. Ne plus te mentir, te cacher avant de grimper au ciel. Au soir de ta vie, tout est devenu si facile. Pourquoi ne l’était-ce pas auparavant pauvre imbécile ? Ne te fais pas souffrir, tu n’en as plus le loisir. Le temps du passé est révolu, ni haine, ni regrets. Tu as pu choisir, décider. Au soir de ta vie, tu seras ce que tu as été. Le solde n’est ni bon, ni mauvais. Les plans comptables n’existent pas. Ton bagage léger. Ne tremble pas, les ombres ne t’agresseront pas. Elles sont les étapes de ta vie, celles que tu as manquées. Il y a eu tant de rendez-vous ratés. Ta vie a été si longue, l’as-tu oublié ? Remplie de méandres, tu l’as si souvent torturée. Au soir de ta vie, tu partiras avec ce passé. Il n’est pas là pour t’encombrer, juste te rappeler. Ce sera ton laisser passer. Au bout du chemin, ils te demanderont qui t’as été ? Ne cherche pas, ne triche pas. Dis leur, parle leur de nous, de notre amour, de tout çà. Au soir de ta vie, tes yeux brilleront encore une dernière fois. Ce sera ta vérité. Notre secret.
Lire la suiteLes chants des anges
Les chants des anges se sont étendus sur le premier matin du monde. Souples comme le vol d’une colombe, ils glissèrent sur la terre, l’enveloppèrent.Puissants, forts, ils couvrirent le bruit de la bataille qui s’engagea entre la nuit et le jour. Les éclats de cette lutte montèrent jusqu’à nous. Nous étions collés l’un contre l’autre. Nous avions si peur. Les éclairs de leur combat crevèrent les ténèbres. Les montagnes jaillirent du sol. Les volcans crachèrent leur lave dans une mer écumante. Tu tremblais. Les vibrations de leur combat traversaient notre corps, nos âmes. Les chants des anges nous transperçaient. Ils voulaient nous sécuriser. Nous étions effrayés. Nos yeux pleuraient. Nos larmes avaient le goût de l’amertume. La disparition de cette nuit dans laquelle nous vivions depuis si longtemps. Le combat s’est arrêté avec la victoire du jour sur la nuit, l’arrivée du premier matin du monde. Il était blanc, laiteux. Paresseux, il s’est étiré en de longs nuages cotonneux. Il y avait la terre et les arbres. Le vent et le froid. Un sol blanc de givre. Lentement, le soleil perça derrière le voile de nuages. Nos yeux quittèrent les ténèbres. La lumière se fit de plus en plus vive, nous éclairant. Son éclat a habillé nos corps, les réchauffant. Surprenante, la sensation a été agréable, réconfortante. Pour la première fois, j’ai vu ton visage. Avant, tu n’étais qu’une ombre que mes doigts effleuraient, que mes yeux ne voyaient pas. Nous étions bien ainsi. Le chant des anges a modifié tant de choses. Aujourd’hui, l’on se voit. Tu es si belle. On se touche si peu maintenant pour se comprendre. Nous regardons au-delà des collines et des bois de cette soif nouvelle de savoir. Avant, dans le noir, nous avions besoin de si peu de choses. Notre faim est devenue insatiable. Nos querelles interminables. Nos choix, nos regards si différents. On se sépare peu à peu chaque matin un peu plus. Il nous reste encore ces derniers instants de nuit où l’on se souvient que nous étions des ombres collées l’une à l’autre.
Lire la suiteThe songs of the angels
The songs of the angels extended over the first morning from the world. Flexible like the flight of a dove, they slipped on the ground, wrapped it.Powerful, strong, they covered the noise of the battle which began between the night and the day. The glares of this fight went up to us. We were stuck one against the other. We had if fear. The flashes of their combat burst darkness. The mountains spouted out ground. The volcanos spit their lava in a foaming sea. You trembled. The vibrations of their combat crossed our body, our hearts. The songs of the angels transpierced us. They wanted to make safe us. We were frightened. Our eyes cried. Our tears had the taste of the bitterness. The disappearance of this night in which we lived since so a long time. The combat stopped with the victory of the day over the night, the arrival of the first morning of the world. It was white, milky. Lazy, it was stretched in long cottony clouds. There were the ground and the trees. Wind and cold. White ground of white frost. Slowly, the sun bored behind the veil of clouds. Our eyes left darkness. The light did increasingly sharp, us lighting. Its glare equipped our bodies, heating them. Surprising, the feeling was pleasant, comforting. For the first time, I saw your face. Front, you were not that a shade which my fingers skimmed, that my eyes did not see. We were well thus. The song of the angels modified so many things. Today, one sees oneself. You are so beautiful. One touches oneself if little now. We look beyond the hills and of the wood of this new thirst for knowing. Front, in the black, we required for if few things. Our hunger became insatiable. Our interminable quarrels. Our choices, our glances so different. One separates little by little each morning a little more. There remain to us still these last moments of night when one remembers that we were shades stuck one to the other.
Lire la suiteTomorrow morning
This night, a frozen shroud extended on the ground. It will not stop me. Beyond mud and frozen flacs, beyond my tiredness, I will walk to you. I owe it to you. For these days when we ran on the sand burning of the summer. For your absence. For your lack of you. For these bonds which are the roots of my reason. You live my thought. I take place only this to lodge you. Our practices are nothing any more but memories. A diaphanous veil recover them. It is unbearable for me. I cannot draw aside it. Each day, it thickens more and more. I hate it. The way our lives separated forever. To Come to find you. To divide. Tomorrow morning, in the cold and the whiteness of a cold paddle. Tomorrow morning, beyond the fog and from the contracted trees, I will go to you. I know that you expect me. My step is now slower. Do not judge me, I love you as much. You left, it is so a long time. Many snows of the winter covered the tomb with our passion. There remains to me only this stone where your name is engraved. It is there that I believe that you are. I make seeming. I lie myself. There remains to me only that to exist in the memory of you. Then, this frozen shroud which extended on the ground this night will not stop me. I will walk beyond mud and of the cold flacs. I will cross this fog of the winter which will be never enough thick to find you and to love you.
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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
