The tears
On the windows of lights. There, where the tears of rain cry. We saw flowering of the trees, of the flowers, to live marvellous gardens. We lowered the weapons. It grew dark, we were in conflict. That often arrives to us. So often. In this enchanted universe, we found peace. A few moments, if little, just enough. To forget our many times re-sifted rancours, our reproaches. To advance between the bright colors of this artificial paradise. Fallen from the sky. To reconcile us. To hope that this moment will go until the end of the night. At this moment when the sun will come to extinguish the lights of this imaginary garden. We will throw with-outside. Tomorrow, there will be no more tears of rain to run on the deadened windows. The dark walls will find their gray colors. Our faces too. I know it. I feel it. It has been only the night that we manage to thread us inside. In this country where we exist without time, nor hour. One finds oneself like front. Gently. By loving us. But, the magic is exhausted, I see it, I am afraid of it. You want less to come. To flee, go elsewhere. The tears which will run one evening on the windows of light will be those of my pain.
Lire la suiteMelancholic
This evening, we will walk in the streets of the city. Without goal. Carried by the wind of the winter. Pushed by the cold of the mountains. We, we will hide under a porch to avoid the snow-covered breath. To kiss us. The lights of festival will trace the way of our steps. Between the high stone walls. In front of the rare still enlightened windows. We will go from a slow step. Each day, we will run. All the time. Praise of slowness. Hope of softness. We will enter a soft torpor. Stuck one to the other, we will slip like phantoms on the brilliant ground. Our shades will not be able there to be reflected. This evening, we decided that we will be invisible. Alone. Irresistibly alone. To share this moment. Simply. Single. Melancholic.
Lire la suiteOur secrecies
The fog rose this morning, coming to cover the lake where we drowned our secrecies, our last sufferings. We thought them forever cast. But, this morning while coming to walk along dark banks, I saw going up on the surface what we had done everything to forget. A hand covered with algae, a white face, hair stuck above. A deformed mouth. A cry which cannot leave there. Our demons appeared, returned of deepest of our history, breaking this smooth memory that we got busy to manufacture. To protect us. To believe that we exist. To hope that the centuries will not have a catch on us. Between the trees of the park where we grew, where we so often played. In this place where we learned how to love us, to grow, to be afraid to lose us. On this lake where there was the accident. A fall of the boat, the water which enters my mouth, chokes me. My arms which beat to resist. My body which is inserted. The light of the life which dies out. For the last time your looked at face. Above, so much of fear, distress. It is not that image which I would have liked to carry. You were traumatized, terrified. Me, as much. Then, there was the calm, silence, this mattress of vase where I rested. Later, much later, I belonged myself to this body which had given up me. I left to your research. I found you only the evening when your body, used, agreed to let you leave to precipitate you in my arms. Since, we walk in this park like phantoms current after our missed lives. One did everything to forget this disastrous day where I drowned. But this morning, the fog awoke it to torture me, us to make suffer, us to recall that we must protect ourselves, us to like. Then, as insane, I run towards to throw you, me in your arms. To close the eyes, to believe that never nothing arrived. To cheat, falsify our reality. Since centuries, I know that we live in this world where never we will not manage to drown our secrecies, our last sufferings.
Lire la suiteThe nightmare
You left your nightmare under the branches of a large willow. A cold air draft sweeping your shoulders. You trembled, shivered, a bit frightened. The weather was almost black. Not enough day to know. What there was in front of you, this castle, this pre. Intimidated, you remained to look at them. With far the clouds advanced. On the lathes gathered. The cold bit you. The day refused to rise. The night to lie down. The castle approached. The clouds threatened you. The pre one narrowed. This contraction was going to strike you. You wanted to howl. You just murmured. A small unobtrusive cry. Your tended arms did not protect you. The castle you entered. The weather was almost black. Not enough day to know. A large staircase. To the marble steps towards the stage went up. A moon flash, a pearl of sun guided you. You advanced. In front of you, the staircase was concealed. In a wild horse-gear, you turned. Your steps accelerated. The head turned you. Blown, you wanted to stop you. To put back you. A force raised you. In a room, you was projected. You rolled. In ball, to a large chimney. In the hearth, ashes would die. The weather was almost black. Not enough day to know. You were raised. Your arms, your tired legs. Your heart in a wild rhythm. Close to the chimney, you were heated. In an armchair, you crumbled. The sleep arrived. The fear was involved. Your contracted hands. You ran. You fled. With far a light shone. Towards it, you precipitated. To breathe. To save you. You left your nightmare under the branches of a large willow. A cold air draft sweeping your shoulders. You trembled, shivered, a bit frightened. The weather was almost black. Not enough day to know.
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What you imagine
There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. A cathedral without roof. A storm which rises. Tears of rain which wet your lips, your face. A sun which extends on the columns supporting from the sacrificed walls. There is heat, the beads of sweat, water falling from the clouds. Your steps, slow, with the stripped feet, advancing in wet grass. To go the head raised to the broken vault. To tighten the hands, to seize the sky, to join it until the end of the mirage. To see the world remembering its images. There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. Vis-a-vis the vacuum of the mutilated cathedral, you intend it to shout, to beg. Its burst stained glasses, its torn off stones. The tears of rain have the taste of blood. On your face they stream. In your head, they hammer. Noise of the hammers and the shovels. Arrivals to break the roof to the sky. Where one can see the world, to remember its images. There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. A bunch of people singing. In the heart of a cathedral to the reconstituted roof, the rehabilitated walls. To forget its cries and its tears. To let itself cherish by the rays of stained glasses to the blue-orange colors. It will be your hour. To raise you, go the feet stripped in grass wet to a locked door. There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. A cathedral of which you do not have the key.
Lire la suiteYour demons
In the cold of the winter, on the crystals of freezing, the trace of your steps behind you, you from will go away. To go in the cold, in the middle of the incipient night, to mix your demons among the shades. In the cold of the winter, you will be alone. In the middle of the cold trees, drowned in the black, the darkness of the forest will equip you. More to show you, not to face your incapacities more, in this retirement you will escape. In the cold of the winter, it will remain if little you. Your demons hidden in the roots of your reason. Never will give up you. In the cold of the winter, the silence of the ground, you will not be able to escape to them. Your body will suffer to understand it. To have badly to exist. To worry to breathe. To fight not to choke. Until where will you have to go? At the end of the cold of the winter, it will remain of you only the trace of your steps. To retrogress for all to change. To lay down You, expect the return of the summer. On the crystals of freezing you will have to decide to you. You will not be able to escape from it. Coiled in you, your demons will laugh again at these indecisions. In the cold of the winter, on the crystals of freezing, you will not be able to eliminate them. In the cold of the winter, the silence of the ground, you will only learn how to overcome them.
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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
