Without anybody to tell what we lived
I like to think that one expects. In a maze beyond time. Taking the hours and second all gently. In the middle of high columns touching the sky. Across the rain and the clouds. Flying away on the wings. Of these dreams which one shares. Who carry us to seek us. To hope to find us. Without never hesitating, nor to doubt. There is in the labyrinth of our steps. This idea of living there. Behind of high walls, protected from all these things which return to us tired. In return for the night of our sarcophagus. Painted with the colors of our mirage. Both alive while seeking itself. Slowly to believe that one day one will see oneself. Or perhaps not? We will have had as a project to love us. Without dirtying this dream to imagine it out of forgery or truth? We will have believed in him, us, something. It is our wealth, the force of our steps so that one dares. To progress between the columns of our tomb imprisoning our ultimate secrecy. That which one could carry and protect. In the hollow of a thought to the armor-plated strong trunk. By all that one wanted to reject. For better giving up themselves, deriving, without impurity in happiness to dream us. Together, us lighting of our desire nothing for making with the only will to do it. Anthem emulously to lock up our past in a dusty museum. Of all that polluted us by diverting us of this only truth. Us to find, us to like, us letting carry. By the blowing fresh air draft enters the columns. With the flashes, the thunder which thunders. Shaken you and me by the fear, reassured to be joined together in terror. Distressed to be separate whereas one has just met. In the labyrinth, happiness on the face posed. It is as that which I had imagined it. Does not have fear, it is still better in truth. To have been able to approach you, touch you, to dare to speak you. In my dreams you did not have a voice. My hopes did not make the weight. There, it is different now. I know it with triviums, with your hand. Who tightens mine gently. Us going from there together in the labyrinth. Occurs what will arrive, my joy is not pretended. Holds either. Without anybody to tell what we lived. Without trace, without remembering right our shades which are erased. It is what we always wanted.
Lire la suiteRequiem for a phantom
The song of the angels is assembled until the top of the vaults. Spreading themselves in the cathedral, indicating your doubts. Pointing your hesitations, your changes of road. In echo the weight of your regrets answers. That you transport without being able to support them. Without knowing where to throw them. Run on the stone the ink of your sins. Tracing in sanguinary veins the furrow of your regrets. Made culpability, unfinished acts that the song of the angels recalls. Of a voice engraves which bewitches you. Returning in the crash of a rebellious thunder. On the honey of the agreements of a violoncello. Playing the slow repetition of an old story. Entering your heart, coiling themselves in your body. Forcing your flesh until death. This last glare of light appears carrying gold. Hope of a forgiveness by forgetting your wrongs. Acknowledge whereas it is still time while you twist. Of pain, fear, rancour. The bit with the teeth, resistant until more hour. Not to weaken whereas you die. Your forces reducing itself for your greater misfortune. Assemble the song of the angels carrying the laughter. To see you dying. Pleasure of seeing you weakening without to have been able to appease. The hatred which continues to nourish you. With howling about it, vomitting some. Refusing the hand which is tightened. The call of your memories of child. When you smiled all the time. Who draw up themselves like the last folding screen. With your drifts, your torments. Beat the drum of the reasoning torturer. On the stones, fleeing between the vaults of the cathedral. In a fatal wave. Who traverses you plunging to the roots of the evil. Who sees you trailing yourself, to lap like an animal. The blood which runs out of your wounds. Strewing a body with the image which displeases. To be itself dedicated with the diabolic wandering of the sin. Drinking with pleasure the poisoned water of its excesses. The song of the angels will be able nothing to change there. Intends them from to go away, to give up you. Cry over the stone the murmur of the last judgment. Who has just condemned you. Forever. You do not like too much this word. Carriying in him of eternity. He frightens you, you did not go yet there. In this place where time solidified. In a distressed posture. Spreads itself on you distressing makes an attempt. To extinguish you of a slow death. Whereas the day and the night are linked in a guilty agreement. To extend their heavy mark. Nobody can nothing any more make for you. The angels were further gone from there than the sky and wood. Further you can imagine it, you phantom without faith, nor law. Eternity is in front of, just there, to touch of it the reflection of the end of the fingers. Place where blood in this place will run. Place where in the small hour the last bond will be distinct. With what retain you. A glance, a hand. A gesture which points out the life which was your destiny. Then, you will sink in the limbs of your tomb. Stone and the night closing again your vault. Without epitaph, a word.
Lire la suiteThe loneliness of the painting
Timidly, the night bores between fractures the one day which weakens, advancing on the slow anguish of a deadened sky. Recovering the out-of-date scales of a dirtied fabric of the lapse of memory, drowned among the turned blue colors of a numb past. Gently undulate the fragile glare of one candle to clearness hesitant and trembling. Swept the cold breath of the winter engaging under the door precipitately. Dance the clear flame on the shades of the table, awaking its phantoms and its evils. Go the deaf step of the night bringing the wind and the storm. Fear, the erosion of all feelings, this impression frozen more nothing to hope. Any form of reaction under the somnolence of an administered chloroform to thought falls asleep. By the regular swinging of the flame come to hypnotize. Hatred, the rage, passion, the desire for liking, for projecting themselves. Leaving only the soft torpor fall asleep little by little. Arms, legs slackening itself, eyes closing itself. Given up with the door of the dream while knocking on the door with dormant wood. So that it opens, that it releases, that it tears off all bonds with the day. There is the soft music of silence, slow, invading, heady, alleviating. There is this diffuse happiness to feel it to coil itself in the body of an irradiant heat. Violently, the night is there quartering the fractures of the day furiously, parcelling out the blades of clearness, crushing the black. By posing the veil sinks of its despair. In which you avoid yourself before you to go from there to trail in the empty streets. Slipping along the stones and walls by rubbing you with their wrinkles. Scaling on their stop sharp this heart with sharp loan giving up itself. I saw it in your unhappy eyes. With your dreadful glance. I would have liked to tell you so many things to help itself to survive. But, didn’t I know, by fear, by timidity, perhaps both? The black entered in you blowing the clearness of the candle. Letting settle the night. There is this frozen cold which runs on your shoulders, crystallizes your heart, your body, weakens the beats of your heart. There is this waiting of the day so that the out-of-date scales of your fabric dirtied by the lapse of memory find their colors. Tomorrow, the sun will rise, bringing its heat, its hot and languorous glare. I can promise it to you, more it is impossible, I am not a prophet. But, I will return to look you with eyes in love. And, one will think that it will be well, like one marvellous moment, one holiday without cold, nor storm.
Lire la suiteLove
There is this word which does you fear. Tracing its scars for always. Given birth to in happiness, dying out in the pain. Drawing its ploughings in your heart. Love. You remainders dependant. Of its meeting, dagger with sharp blade. Imperceptibly being inserted in your defenses. Love. With the body without face. Wallowing in your nights well too wise. Run the wave. Overflowing and howling. Love. Forbidden fruit. That you carry to the fleshy lips. Tasting honey and the poison. Of its tears drowning your reason. Love. Leaving Te stripped. The obscured face, reddened eyes. The contrite heart, the ravaged heart. Crying emulously. Love. Without which you feel frail. Quite simply mortal. And which points out you. That you can be beautiful.
Lire la suiteThere is this sentence impossible to finish
There is this sentence impossible to finish leaving me unable to write before weakening. This vacuum tears me, pushes me to howl. Hugging of a throbbing pain. Shining in the remote reflection of a worrying vision, honey of a spellbinding suffering. Carrying this infested sweetened taste of the one evening old venom without a future. I know that you expect me. There is the ocean ready to boil, its waves start to quiver. The sky will darken, to invade me. Bringing the shades of the past. The breath of forgotten words. Jetés to be loose and bad. I know that you hear them. There is this feeling to stagnate, to rot. The storm which is on the point of vomitting, to curse. Going up slowly covered in mist. Stenches of our sentences. I know that you feel them. There is the fear of suffering before undergoing. Rain come to cover what could dirty us. At the time of entry in the cemetery. Mass grave of our rivers. I know that you understand me. It regrets this impossible there to define bringing a gene before leaving to me. To punish me, prevent me from diying. Of a damaged love of our sins. Grate frictions with the stone of our excesses. I know that you go. There is this feeling ready to die, tired to hear the worst. Eager to flee before expires. The breath of any hatred. Forged in a vain fight. Swept incipient storm. Shining in the remote reflection of a worrying vision, honey of a spellbinding suffering. Carrying this infested sweetened taste of the one evening old venom without a future. Who is it and mine.
Lire la suiteThe colors of a pale morning
This evening, in the half-light of the distance the colors of a pale morning will fall asleep. Made fragrant in the patina of a painting drawn with the charcoal. Crossed by the gashes of branches scarifying the sky. Wrapping itself in one day the fugacious memory without trace. Leaving the cold and the silence of a river which in-is dozed. The heart of a turbid water to the movements will run which intertwine. In the dance of a devil to the multiple jokes. Gravity of the air, its odor, will carry the perfume of moisture. Who will extend before fall the veil one starlight night. The song of the birds will die out. Leaving the theater empties, the given up scene, death for guest. Crawling, corrosive, throbbing, turning in round. Like a wild beast in evil of food. The wild eyes, the dull hair, lends to tear. By hunger, desire, pleasure, throwing itself on the least grazing ground. Only, the incipient day will be able to drive out it. Of a rising feature of white color. This evening, in the half-light of the distance the colors of a pale morning will fall asleep. Made fragrant in the patina of a painting drawn with the charcoal. Where will mix the life, death. Between the white and the black, calling the gray lament of a voice extirpating gold. From one day filled of torpor. Of a painted sky of dull colors. The small details of the day will be forgotten, the noises, the cries, the fear, the complaint, the last moaning. Insolate it silence of the vacuum will be essential then after ultimate shaking. Leaving bitter a cross to remember yesterday.
Lire la suite
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
