He had only to love you.
At the bottom of wood, in the half-light of the day, you drown. The light of the life do not arrive any more to you. The white skin of your fished designates you. All, even with me. I knew you, humble, fragile. So far where you plunged in tormented water of the Nile. You wanted to know the world. To exceed the borders, hold them, to lose themselves, waltz in the glaucous swirls of your insanity. You found them in Egypt. That could have been in China or elsewhere. In your head, in your body, there was neither reference mark no more, nor hour. You wanted to allure, conquer, flee. You wanted nothing to hear which can retain you. To run beyond your limits. To blow, push the heart until aggravation. Not to breathe more so that the last page of the partition is turned. You arrived there, absorbed in this water extinguishing the fire of your passion. You could not forget. It was your solution. In remembering, he cried. It was too late, the evil was done. It built you this statue, to glorify you, honour you. He thought of running away himself. He was consumed there. Including, well too late, that it would have had only to love you.
Lire la suiteThe end of the world
The end of the world would be to lose you. The end of the world would be to lose us. That a sun which does not lie down comes to burn our lives. That the cold of the winter rises white of white frost which it recovers our hearts. That we are tetanize, unable to move, petrified. The end of the world would be to remain impotent, the swinging arms, the cracks of the ground separating us. A growing hollow ditch. You on a side, me of the other howling, crying. The end of the world is this vacuum which each day threatens us. Its risk is long-lived. We know it.
Lire la suiteThe ash of your memories
The sun entered imperceptibly. As the tide goes up the gray sand plains to the white dunes of light. Shades of this morning infiltrating on the dark extent of the night, it was introduced from the top of the abbey one by the oozing highest stained glass on the pillars, flooding the heart, the spans. It settled pushing back in the corners obscure the last tears of night. You entered. In full sun. This clearness obstructed you. Your eyes blinked. You deviated. Small timid silhouette. Along a large white wall you settled. Knelt, prostrate, to cry. To request? You have between your hands these some lines where he says to leave you. You do not believe in it. You cannot believe it. You hang up again yourself with a hope. That to mislead you, to be in a bad dream, you will awake. Yes, to awake you. To Open the eyes, to be in full light, in this abbey where you so often came to walk you. To look at children running, continuing between the benches and the chairs, thinking, hoping that one day yours will do as much very of it. The time ago of the certainty, that of the insurances then this word, these some lines which come all to break. You will have to be raised. To drive out the night which was introduced into your life, to let extend time from the shades before is born the day from another following day. You know it. You are afraid not to be able to wait. It is you frightens. To tighten the hand with the light, to steal a piece of day, to leave this wall which supports your sorrow, to release taken, to launch out, forget, force themselves to do it. The force is in you. You came to seek it on the ash of your memories
Lire la suiteAt the evening of your life
At the evening of your life, in the large park with the ravaged trees, you will walk among the shades. The fear will have left you, carrying your phantoms, your dark moments. At the evening of your life, you will walk on gently released of all your futilities. They made you vibrate. Te maintained among the alive ones. You do not have of them any more time. To return to essence. More to lie you, hide you before climbing with the sky. At the evening of your life, all became so easy. Why wasn’t this to it poor imbecile before? Be not made suffer, you do not have of it any more the leisure. The time of the past is completed, neither hatred, nor regrets. You could choose, to decide. At the evening of your life, you will be what you were. The balance is neither good, nor bad. The charts of accounts do not exist. Your light luggage. Do not tremble, the shades will not attack you. They are the stages of your life, those which you missed. It appointment there missed such an amount of. Your life were you so long, did forget? Filled of meanders, you so often tortured it. At the evening of your life, you will leave with this past. It is not there to encumber you, just to recall you. It will be your to let pass. At the end of will the road, they require of you which you ace be? Do not seek, cheating not. Say, speaks to them their about us, our love, all that. At the evening of your life, your eyes will shine still for the last time. It will be your truth. Our secrecy.
Lire la suiteThe songs of the angels
The songs of the angels extended over the first morning from the world. Flexible like the flight of a dove, they slipped on the ground, wrapped it.Powerful, strong, they covered the noise of the battle which began between the night and the day. The glares of this fight went up to us. We were stuck one against the other. We had if fear. The flashes of their combat burst darkness. The mountains spouted out ground. The volcanos spit their lava in a foaming sea. You trembled. The vibrations of their combat crossed our body, our hearts. The songs of the angels transpierced us. They wanted to make safe us. We were frightened. Our eyes cried. Our tears had the taste of the bitterness. The disappearance of this night in which we lived since so a long time. The combat stopped with the victory of the day over the night, the arrival of the first morning of the world. It was white, milky. Lazy, it was stretched in long cottony clouds. There were the ground and the trees. Wind and cold. White ground of white frost. Slowly, the sun bored behind the veil of clouds. Our eyes left darkness. The light did increasingly sharp, us lighting. Its glare equipped our bodies, heating them. Surprising, the feeling was pleasant, comforting. For the first time, I saw your face. Front, you were not that a shade which my fingers skimmed, that my eyes did not see. We were well thus. The song of the angels modified so many things. Today, one sees oneself. You are so beautiful. One touches oneself if little now. We look beyond the hills and of the wood of this new thirst for knowing. Front, in the black, we required for if few things. Our hunger became insatiable. Our interminable quarrels. Our choices, our glances so different. One separates little by little each morning a little more. There remain to us still these last moments of night when one remembers that we were shades stuck one to the other.
Lire la suiteTomorrow morning
This night, a frozen shroud extended on the ground. It will not stop me. Beyond mud and frozen flacs, beyond my tiredness, I will walk to you. I owe it to you. For these days when we ran on the sand burning of the summer. For your absence. For your lack of you. For these bonds which are the roots of my reason. You live my thought. I take place only this to lodge you. Our practices are nothing any more but memories. A diaphanous veil recover them. It is unbearable for me. I cannot draw aside it. Each day, it thickens more and more. I hate it. The way our lives separated forever. To Come to find you. To divide. Tomorrow morning, in the cold and the whiteness of a cold paddle. Tomorrow morning, beyond the fog and from the contracted trees, I will go to you. I know that you expect me. My step is now slower. Do not judge me, I love you as much. You left, it is so a long time. Many snows of the winter covered the tomb with our passion. There remains to me only this stone where your name is engraved. It is there that I believe that you are. I make seeming. I lie myself. There remains to me only that to exist in the memory of you. Then, this frozen shroud which extended on the ground this night will not stop me. I will walk beyond mud and of the cold flacs. I will cross this fog of the winter which will be never enough thick to find you and to love you.
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
