Pearls of ice
On black water of the winter your bitter tears will flee. Carrying in pearls of ice your pains, your secrecies. Along banks with the stripped trees. Falling asleep in the fog of these nights which are announced. The phantoms of your regrets and the words will rise which they pronounce. Poisoned memories which you give up. For a new lovesong. Who points out adolescence to you and a bit of innocence. Slip on water for an unknown destination. Your pains put at naked to be itself kill. So a long time in the promiscuity of an unobtrusive life. That you decided to stripe by hating the word of fate. The one announced spring old rustle buds. Beyond banks of the winter. Freezing the ground and the river. Tomorrow, later, of a slow death in water the pearls of ice of your pains will run out, of your secrecies. That you will have forgotten, healed by time. In the hiding mud forever.
Lire la suiteIn the labyrinth of my insomnia
Transport the colors of the distance. Of a light of a pale morning. Sun rising on the covered plain of white frost. The shades of the night, staggering, drunk disappear. The rays of a new day go up. Cherishing the ploughings. The nightmares of our insomnia fall asleep. Touch the slope of the staircase. Feel the cold of the winter on your stiff hand. Not knowing more why you did not sleep. Assemble the steps towards the light. Leave the cellar of your mysteries. Cherish the glare of the day on glass. Blow above not seeing mist being posed there. I knew it. Why listen to me? There remains to us eternity to lie itself, to betray itself. Lost to tremble. Hung by the idea. To die. Without never arriving there. Running like kids of the cellar to the attic. Wandering like serious and struck phantoms. Not to have more anything to imagine. Transport the colors of the distance. Of a light of a pale morning. You and me, hand in the hand. The fussy one to rise for later from going away. From your eyes a tear escaped. Slow to fall into silence from our absences. To only burst some. Die the hardly last hours without us to heat. Behind our window prisoners. The days and the nights pass. Us two to trail, immured in our insomnia. Assemble the steps towards the light. Leave the cellar of your mysteries. You, who since so a long time did not speak to me. I would have so many things to listen then to tell you. Like my bitter tears. Or these terrifying hours last to feel the cold in my arteries. You would think that I exaggerate. But how still to captivate you, made drunk you by the idea to sink? To leave me. Weary each once to repeat the slow rise of the staircase. To precipitate you. Towards the light of a pale morning. Transporting the colors of the distance. While hoping to find the key. The only able one to release us. I do not believe in it. But, for you, I make pretense of always being there. One is in vain nothing any more. I hold. This small wire which links us with the skeletons of our lives. Where we went the morning. Drunk in the cold and the white frost. To run on the plain of the winter. In the middle of its storms, its mysteries. Believer whom we would have eternity to love us. In the labyrinth of my insomnia this memory makes me hope.
Lire la suiteThe image of an artifice
The cold of these disappeared images sleeps. Stretch yourself the slow anguish of our lapses of memory. In the step making dizzy of a forever solidified time. Looking without seeing itself, nor to be able. To move beyond of a thought captive of the absence of blood in its arteries. Cry the cold of a death left all these bodies. Covered with clothes hiding their ravaged skins. Turned blue of cold, made feeble to be itself stale. In a pause that all opposes.To make accept the life. Whereas their reality became artificial. Cherish the cold of these hearts stiff. With the polished attitudes, the children wisely sitted. Wound the memory of those which lived in this place. Making believe that there remain nothing them. Just the factitious image of an artifice. Who does not have a talent of actress. Burn the cold to remain only in the black. With for only hope playing the game of the knowledge. To tell with alive false stories. Rich and happy people. Who do not even make envious.
Lire la suiteOur hidden tears
In the cathedral of glass doze the bitter shades. Regret of our hidden tears. Not to be not left. Between the ground and the sea. Between these wild days and these frozen nights. Where we were held near. One of the other to heat us. But, I really any more do not remember these moments. There me remains only one scar about it. Ridge of doubts that I immured without artifice. In the book too quickly closed our lives. To flee, to forget or lie? I do not know any more, I do not remember if few things, it is true. Time passed. Trailing between the soft hope of our administered chloroform to dreams and the idea to protect them. Like, I had promised it to you. It is thus. I did not forget the promises that I had you ridges. These memories to be preserved without scorning them. Your smiles, our laughter. All that remains to me to have fun. To make pretense be merry whereas your absence is a painful evil. Will I have to tell you? Or to make pretense be happy? And to languish itself? From a time when we were both. Trailing in the cathedral of glass. Between its shades and its mysteries. Moved away from the ground, closer to stars and their lights. To invent a world where we would be queens and kings. Without subjects, just you and me. Without rule, nor law. Playing on the back of comets while howling with keep silent head. The tears of a bitter violin cry. Telling the memory of our dreams amazed. Between the cords of a boxing ring where our are delirious us led on the ground. Glances against glances carried by wild eyes. Fall asleep on the furnace bridge of the martyr the languor of our memories. Goods or bad leaving only the regret of our hidden tears. Not to be never left.
Lire la suiteTeddy bears
Remember these wooden horses. Letting you carry by the swirl of their horse-gear. Yes, remember. We went there by times of snow. Hand in hand giving of the kicks in the water puddle pools. Laughing, speaking high. You circling, me looking at itself. To make drunk You the body and the head. From these days repeating itself in a spirit of festival. We took the time, all our time. Without anybody to expect us or seek to understand us. A day ago, of night, nor even of trouble. We were alone in the large park with the closed grids being used to protect us. To remain with the shelter in our life. Different to be abandoned children. Dreaming You of a teddy bear that you could cuddle. Me, dreaming to offer it to you. Not having neither money, nor means of entering the store, just the only desire. To satisfy you. We returned from the park while passing in front of the window to the deadened bears. We looked them like children, them finding beautiful and mutineers. We observed them under the light believed until the morning. We were not there to see them to wake up nor to stretch itself. There remained only the power to think them. Rising, happy to find itself between of the same brothers and sisters destiny. Their life was a little ours, giving them names, nicknames. Without us to ask the question of knowing if the cold, the hunger could gain them. They were like us them children of a history without name. Like the division of a form of reason. They became close to us so far where one of them disappeared. I saw you. To Cry. To Touch by the absence of the missing. As if you had lost a brother or the memory of a father. I sought in the reflection of the pane your face, my image. There was nothing to see. As the bears we do not have history. Carrying the fate of dead children.
Lire la suiteThe walls of our cemetery
Look at the city being spread out in right and linear walls. . Where shelter dark beings behind. Observing by the windows the slow manufacturing of the mystery. Of an oppressive silence on the city falling down. With the deserted pavements. In the precarious calm. Of a choking absence. Go the bitter heart of a being of misery. Wandering on the paving stones recovering fossilize them past. In search of tastes and colors tinted of memories. Honey of this completed time where the bees flew. On the flowers of our orchard without fruits to be gathered today. Let the city be spread out in right and linear walls. Country of right and proud phantoms. That never nobody sees. Behind the opened out unhappiness of gray and cold walls. I think then of you. Running through wood. Happiness at the end of the fingers. It was, a long time ago. When we were children. Saved projection of the stone monster. With the totalitarian expansion. Who little by little factory walls of our cemetery. Where we spend the whole years. Without another horizon that a city which goes, conquering and proud to extend its arteries
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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
