Never to leave us
I remember of this rainy day. Where we were both. In seaside. Taking the air. With us to like. We entered an old coffee. Sat, along a tagged pane of drops of rain. Like a fir tree faded with the stripped plaster garlands. To look at ravelling the life. To see passing from the phantoms absorbed until the end of the trouble. Like old friends. With the loves fled. Looking itself without surprise. Being able to draw the least wrinkle. On a face aged with the gray skin. Color of the last years. To stick itself. With cry for better approaching. Before one day to be left. To feel time to slip by. Between the fingers without being able to stop it. Like this music come from the bottom of the coffee. With the adored air. On which we built so many memories. There is this refrain which is repeated. Throbbing. In a last sigh. Bewitching. That one would like to delay. For listening to it forever. Causing in your eyes this misted glance. That I wished. For immediately loving you. There is this refrain which will be completed. I want to howl. To break this pane carrying the tears of rain. Fallen from clouds which enter the sky of our lives. To push back. So that never does not come the night. Sink. Involving us with the country of the shades. Where people of the photograph are erased. Hung on the wall there high. So that she lives in the reflection of the pane. On which slip of the pearls of shoddy goods. With the bodies of rain without title. Who titillate me. To take you along to dance. Before the refrain which is repeated. Do not stop. Remember this rainy day. Where we were both. At the seaside. Happy. Merry. Like children wet feet. Playing with the tide. Throwing to the waves this bottle where you have write to like me. Today, we found it. Covered with algae to the intertwined arms. Like us in a deep past. You would like to break it. All to forget. To start again. There is this refrain which will be completed. You know it. Waits. Still give me a little time. Remember this rainy day. Where we were both. Misted eyes. To be itself found. Making the wish. To reach this day when we would be old. Sat in a coffee. Along a tagged pane of drops of rain. Like a fir tree faded with the stripped plaster garlands. To remember of what we were. Never to leave us.
Lire la suiteLove letter
Why believe you? Why accept your reality? Distorted. By all your nauseas. Spitting on the world. With your eyes rivetted on a vague future. Your hatred which thunders. With deepest of you torn by your cries of insane. Died of pain. Not to have known to acknowledge its love. Forgetting its heart. By bravado, incapacity to put itself at knees. Too much stupid not to transform its pride into ploughing. And, which swears, too late, to want to return at the first evening. Why believe it? He, which taught me despair. Me, which expected the hope. My eyes, my body, folded to enter its world. With all its meanders. Its whims. Its delights. Loan with tending. My lips with the wine of its insanity. Forgetting my heart. By passion. Starting the way of the love. Without fear. On the knees. Despite Everything stones. That it had just sown. By pride, too attached to satisfy its defects. I understood it too late. When my sleep was made nightmare. Going up on the scaffold of the sacrifice. Constrained of drinking the wine of its poison. Penetrating in my veins, printing my existence of this hunger. Of him. Each morning. Each day until the end of the night. Bursting. Licking the memory of our memories in search of what we had been. Unreasoned. Tortured. I cannot separate some. To have to like it too much. I cannot keep it. To have blamed it too much. Why believe you? Why accept your reality? Distorted. By all your nauseas. I do not stop asking it to me. I am not able to leave you. Bewitched. Thinking of this first dance. Who put to us in fright. This memory haunts me. Try me. I do not sometimes happen at me to detach some. It burns me. Turn me into ridiculous. I make very not to forget it. Remembering each note of the piano carrying us. You. Against me. Me. Against you. Unconstrained, nor law. Just linked by the faith. To believe in us. We were wolves. Give. With the idea to finish on a cross. Contaminated by the venom of the love. For always. I awaited it from you. I wanted this extreme. That you like me.
Lire la suiteIn the prison city
I walk in search of our past. From these strange days where one walked. In the streets without goals. Always attracted. By this sky under the cupola of glass. Oozing between the iron bars. Seen this prison where we were behind. With us to require how would our life on other side be? We remained so often to contemplate it. With us to question. Why ? I do not know. Were us satisfied? Of what we live. By turn in round. In this city where we had swept all the recesses. So far. Too much far. That we did not have of them any more a reference mark. Just attracted by the sky under the cupola of glass. To flee. To go where? Elsewhere to live worse? We told we it. To agree to remain. Together. Making pretense like our lives which tremble. Tasting its shivers in the cold of our prison. Oozing between the iron bars. Come from the sky dripping of the cupola of glass. Helping hands to see, for drinking. Drops of day. On the covered marble of ice floes. Falling from our tears love empties. Only. We were alone. In the prison city. Where we walked. In the half-light of these strange days where one walked. In the streets without goals. Without rebellion. Subjected. With the whims of this life. Imposed. That we had found. The day when we were born. Hand in the hand. Growing together. Accustomed. All to divide so much so that one resembles itself. Our eyes turned towards the cupola of glass. Had a long time the same glance. Land-mark. Returning low head in this hole where we placed our carcasses. In the night black waiting until the dark one is erased. Until the following day. Therefore without goals in the streets. Always attracted. By this sky under the cupola of glass. Oozing between the iron bars. Naked. Under the heavy shower. Of light come from the sky to try to understand. In the repetition of mow days to wait. Flooded, softened by incomprehension. Of our situation. Small fledglings. Frail. Without wings. In the large cage. Animated of if little rage. Until the day when you rose more. Ni, days according to. Then, never. Now, I walk in search of our past. From these strange days where one walked. In the streets without goals. Always attracted. By this sky under the cupola of glass. Oozing between the iron bars. Seen this prison where we were behind. With me to require how will my life without you at my sides be?
Lire la suiteAt the end of the white road
At the end of the white road. There is this ruin. All at the top of the hill. There, where we will lie. Eyes turned towards a tormented sky. The stuck body. Plated hands. On a ground ground enters of the collapsed walls. To Feel to knock the slow heart of a deep past. To Listen, vibrate, cries of the children. Oaths of their parents. To Imagine time. Where the castle on the hill was not ruin. To Intend to breathe, between its stones, the breath of hearts which intertwine, undo themselves. To Believe that they flew away. For another elsewhere. Towards a better world. Far from these broken walls from where they were rejected. At the end of the white road. There is this ruin. All at the top of the hill. There, where one comes to seek the hope. From one moment of peace under the one evening old stars. Our steps imprisoned by the fog. Trapped Miners by this feeling more nothing to see. On the white way. With the low head the penitent ones. Wrapped coats of the hearts of the past come to accompany us. Us to protect. Hand in the hand. Like them in a remote morning. We have advanced. Inserted in the large forest. Until the edge. Leave under the weight of a tormented sky. As this day when the castle blazed up. Leaving calcined beings. The stuck body. Plated hands. On a ground ground enters of the collapsed walls. Did they fly away? For another elsewhere? Towards a better world? We lay. On the ground enters the collapsed walls. To listen, vibrate, cries of the children. To like the oaths of their parents. To seek to know. By closing the eyes. By boring the vault of the skies. With this hope. To see them happy.
Lire la suiteRed blood
Red blood. At the evening of a setting sun. A salted taste. Oozing. On the reliefs of the world. Staining. A cemetery of cross. With the rusted bodies. Running on the language. Savor. Responsible for intoxication. Who pitches. Dripping. At the end of all the fears. Red blood. On hands. Stuck on the face. Not to see more. The soiled face. Of a color transfering with the black. Putrefying. The virginity of the angel. Its shade stretching itself over the evening of a watery world. With the colors red blood. In silence. Of a cemetery. Body with the crosses rusted. Loneliness. Heavy. Pressing. On the piano of time. Striking bitter notes. With the stammering melancholy. Crying of the tears of blood. Clouds being erased. Under the push of a wind. Kneeling. With the feet of the angel. Fragile. Contracted wings. Sensitive. The buckled face. Red blood. On hands. Stuck on the face. Not to see more. The soiled face. To have fought too much. Asphyxiated. To be able to breathe. Just abandoned. Lengthened. On the ground. Arms in cross. The tortured face. By this salted taste. In the mouth. Red blood. Savor. Responsible for intoxication. Who pitches. Dripping. At the end of all the fears. Until this hour. Where the angel will rise. Swallowing. The weight of its torments. Going in poverty. In the setting sun. Being erased. Imperceptibly. The red body blood.
Lire la suiteA long time
There remains nothing any more but your face. Its large amazed eyes. Looking towards the sky. A disappeared horizon. I remember this light brush which drew us. Colors recovering us. It was, a long time ago. Our being erased bodies. In the stone mixing. You, hands united in a last prayer. Me, disappearing. Not existing. That by your glance in charge of hope. To re-examine me. Without being. I cannot reappear. On a transpierced skeleton of a branch of olive-trees. The arteries of my heart were traced. Blood being engulfed in a last beat. That which you carry with the eyes. To the skies. Your prayer carrying it. On the wings of the wind. Who will listen to it? I remember this light brush which drew us. Colors recovering us. It was, a long time ago. Who will look at us? Time passed. Year after year. Without never releasing us. Obstacles of the years. Pangs of cancer corroding us. There are no more colors. Of brush. For our greater misfortune. Able to return this happiness to us. To exist. One beside the other. Just to dance. To walk. On the wall. Gamboling. Unnecessarily. Silently. On the edges of time. So that lasts. Eternally. There remains to me only the memory. Sad to die about it. Of this light brush which drew us. Colors recovering us. It was, it is so a long time…
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
