The river
On vaguenesses of silence time passes. Of a river curving among trees with the branches extending. Languorously while balancing itself. Gently carried by the wind. Slowly in the quivering of a lovingly given caress. Die the minutes shelled by the sand glass of time. Of a sky to the falling zenith. At the bottom of water on extending sand. Falling asleep while dreaming. At these wild hours flee violently. To rest in inside. In this shell which is split. Little by little irremediably. To the edge of time. Where very will crumble imparablement. Not leaving. That dust of wind. Between the fingers slipping. Where the wind carries. From one day alleviating.Coiled in the body of my memory tenderly.
Lire la suiteThis evening
This evening, per hour when the half-light will recover the day, I from will go away. On the path trodden by the wind. Between the branches folded back by the howling breath. I will approach. Near to this moment when the sun dies of a slow descent with gravity of the air for parachute. Being inserted beyond the horizon in a last glare before its ultimate fall. There I will remain to expect the noises of the night. The whistle of the raptors, the cry of the gulls, until the end of the trouble. I am on standby of you. These intertwined last hours. Now forgotten. I remember your taste for the birth of the dark moments; moments when there is no more law. Gray color with the mixture of black and white. Colors which defined your burst of laughter being born. Your joy of melting you among the shades hiding your misfortunes. Also your fears.Equipped with the lies of the night smoothing truth with dark lapse of memory. Locate where you are flees. Taking the flight of the last glare of a sun being in hiding. To fall with him far behind the firmament. There, where I did not know to follow you. I am on standby of you. Seeking in your moods of the past, the trace to find you. On the path trodden by the wind. Between the branches folded back by the howling breath. I will flee. On standby to be carried further than the sea does not see. To you.
Lire la suiteThe bird
On the dark veil, of a monotonous clearness. Fall the tears from the autumn. Flooding a ground without sun, lends to one winter without similar. Fly away the bird. So far, so beautiful. Leaving for other following days. Bringing the dream easy to be carried by its slender wings. Beating the evils of time, breaking its stinks. Given up on the ground without remorse. Skeletons of lives crashed to pieces by a dead daily newspaper. Accumulated concern, playing with the culpability. Fertilizing the stench. Of a fight of each day, mother of so much of sufferings. Fly away the bird. So far, so beautiful. Beyond the clouds barring the horizon. Preventing from projecting itself towards projects. Opposing only the mediocrity of a fate to him. Denounced without concession by the simple vision. Of an escape towards another elsewhere. Perhaps not better. But, leaving still with the bird the hour choose the grounds of its happiness.
Lire la suiteThe first morning
Slowly, I drew the curtain from time equipping our first morning. It made clearly and cold. Bringing the light of the distance. I thought of you. So near to me. Still coiled in a deep sleep. I looked at beating the sea. Without opening the window for fear it awakes. I listened to the slow rhythm of our first morning. Like the notes of a speaking piano with half words. Not to damage the divine one. Telling lazes of a soft languor as a caress. Going higher. That the time of this first morning does not beat. Carrying to the borders. The tenderness of a weakness. The passion of an intoxication. Running on the notes of time. That I hear. While looking at rising the white sky. From a first virgin and beautiful morning like the child. Whose first cry was offered to the wind. Hands contracted to retain dust of time. Who flees already in the lapse of memory. Goes and from comes from the sea dancing. Under my misted eyes of these moments. Who will not remain only moments. But will carry the throbbing memory. From a first morning. Where bathed in silence, I saw the sun rising. Illuminant, your face with the lips carmines. Recovering the pink of dyed tone. White of this color which you carried yesterday. When, both front the furnace bridge, we linked our prayers.
Lire la suiteRose of our mornings
We gave to water the pink that I had brought to you. Offered to testify to my need to love you. Gently, we deposited it. With happiness to see it from to go away before fading. Transporting our passion. Well before the inhabited waves of insanity come to carry us. By superstition. As if we were anxious. Of what could arrive to us. We did not hesitate. To give up it. Rose of our mornings. Beautiful. Equipped with our memories mutineers. Fresh. Made up reflections of sparks. Carrying the arrows. Love. Who joined together us. Around. Desire. To further push than tomorrow. The burning need to be caught the hand. By superstition. Now, some share. There is a place where the heart of a pink remembering our union beats. It is not a chance. If, later. Its memory. We will accompany until our last sigh.
Lire la suiteThe sun rose lying
The sun rose lying. Laugher on the paddle of your uglinesses. Attenuating your insipidities. Devils of bad winds. By the wind engraved. Telling the story. Of a misfortune. With the mirror. Without decency. Looking at the reflection of an announced death. Engraving in the stone the bad face. Of a shared pain. By brothers of rancours. With the hearts filled of blacknesses. That the chain of the culpability. Will be able to never strangle. The sun rose lying. Illuminant your faces of pain. Carrying for always. The mask of a suffering which plows you. The heart, entrails. Engraving in the stone the fault. Of your lives without love.
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
