Why I love you ?
Do you remember this walk where we were lost in wood ? Such a long time ago. You were cold, you approached me. The night of the winter fell between the large cold trees. You took my arm as you seized your headstock when child you were unhappy. You wanted something. Fragile, I felt you to hesitate. Did you ask me why I loved you? I know that you remember my answer. It surprised you. I told you that your question was poor, meaningless. I shocked you. Your arm contracted on mine. I felt your disapproval. I intertwined you. You wanted to escape to you, upset. However, you remained. My eyes fixed hold them. You saw all my answers. Lack of your presence when you are not there. All these landscapes which point out our escapades. Exchanged words which raise the stones recovering our memories. So many pieces of time on the web of spider of our lives. We wove it together between the branches of our passion. Then why, I love you? Asks me, how I love you? How does my life occur without you? Multiply your interrogations to bring you closer to my truth. Your questions, to be right, must be infinite. My answers are it. Release yourself from these needs so small, if restrictive. Be not satisfied with easy words, so much of times repeated, meaningless. That is to say demanding, excessive. Do not have a border. It is as that which we like.
Lire la suiteLove letter
Your letter arrived to me yesterday. I recognized your writing, his brittleness. I did not expect it. I did not expect it any more. Quickly, too quickly, I wanted to go to the meeting of you. A torn envelope, awkward gestures damaging the first sentences; I was in a hurry of you. On the blank paper, the shades of your words scribbled with goes-quickly, the erasures, the hesitations, all these sentences thrown in a cry. I felt your certainty, your interrogations. More than ever, you revealed yourself. No the hand passed on a face to divert the attention, not wick of hair falling to veil your flame. There are in front of me the words which you dared to pronounce, throwing them to paper with the ink of your heart. You launched out like insane, to go quickly, double these doubts which would like that you wait still and still. They imposed some erasures for these too strong words which frighten them. They are with the door of your mouth, to the forefront of your feather. One day next, you will dare. Vis-a-vis me, without letter, with a glance, a smile, we will embark on the river of our passion.
Lire la suiteGothic and romantic
At the end of the road, at the end of the fog, there is this old church. We will join it at the fallen night. To Reach its doors to stop us, us to rest. So Many of other walkers did it before us. Direction their hearts which accompany us playing hide-and-seek in the fog recovering us. The branches of the trees drip of rain. The flowers violets carry diamond rivières. The volcanic black stones shine on the grassy ground. In the vast quiet extent, the birds do not plane any more. Sometimes, the sound of your steps recalls me your presence behind me. It is the last bond which binds me to you. We advance like two phantoms on the mounts abandoned. Our walk will end with the door of the old church, over there, so far it seems inaccessible. Silence is heavy, heavy. Lost, our eyes betray us without reference mark. Sometimes, a tree leaves the fog. Giant with the tentacular arms, thin with the emaciated body, it looks at us. Firm the eyes, hears the song of the angels which fly above us. Listen, yes listening. They are addressed to us. To go, go to burst some, to join them, run on the mounts, to plane on the valleys. More not to suffer, damage themselves to join dreams. To release, give up themselves, lie down on the way. Nobody will see us in the fog which buries us. To play with the angels in races without end. It is enough to tighten the hand. Yes, you can it. I want it. But the noise of your steps returns to me like an echo. You stumble, falls, I you raise you. It is necessary to continue, go, advance. The song of the angels disappeared. We are only again. Fog, cold, loneliness. The weight of the bag on the back. The breath runs. So many others lived it before us. To think, give a goal to resist, not to lie down, tighten the hand with the angels. At the end of the road, at the end of the fog, this old church appears. Hand in the hand, we join it. To Enter inside, to rest and like forever under the protection of the angels.
Lire la suiteThe poem of your words
On the blue lake as of your eyes, a drop of unhappiness beaded. You tightened your fists in front of your mouth to protect itself, not to show. Your head bent down to fold up you. Your fringe hid what it could. But the blue lake of your eyes darkened not being able anything more to prevent. Your body contracted. The drop of unhappiness became a tear of distress. In the storm of your feelings, you gave up yourself. The tear ran on your cheek, your small cavities depressed. Your tight fists could nothing any more control. To cry to exist. To cry to have liked too much. In a tear, the poem of your words is escaped.More text to be written, nobody to listen to it. A future in scrap, the abandonment for destiny. The rage lives your fists, the blue lake is filled of incandescent lava, the night rose. A shade recovers your face demolishes. You are beautiful but you forgot it. Tomorrow, later, the volcano will die out, its choked rage. Your enlightened eyes will find their glare under the gilded fringe. Your contracted fists will have opened with the unknown in another slipped hand. The paper pencil will again write the poems of your words on the small notebook. Raise, erases this chewed dye. Fight, resists not to sink. On the blue lake of your eyes a wind of revolt must blow.
Lire la suiteOn frozen banks of your heart
On frozen banks of your heart, I was mislaid. Your silences, your absences pushed me there. Without goal, wandering on the deserted moor, without reference mark, I did not find you. You flee this place. You fear it. You are afraid to penetrate there, of you to mislay there. It exceeds you, crushes you. The demons which hide in you precipitate there sometimes. You debates, you do not want to come to fail you on black stones of your distress. You have badly. This evil lives in you. It corrodes you, plunges you in these silences without end which precipitated me on these frozen banks. I wanted to understand. The Weather is cold. Without key to escape to me, I hate this day when I met you. Your smiling face, your hot hands, your fired smiles. I let myself capture without fighting. The demons in you can cheat so well. You were the slow anguish of my days, of my years which little by little were consumed. More nothing to say themselves, learn how to hate itself. It was necessary that I would be insane to remain. You had one goal to involve me on frozen banks of your heart. You gave me in grazing ground, without hesitating. The only compromise with your demons so that they leave you in peace.
Lire la suiteLove letter
Firm eyes. Yes, firm eyes. Direction odors of the forest plunged in the black. Slip into the fog which goes up, recovers us. You are cold. Snuggle against me. You shiver, you are afraid. It is normal. You advance without knowledge. You gave me your confidence. Much more still. You jumped into space, without parachute, thinking of nothing. You start with the noise of the branches which crack under your feet. You cling to me. Still more. You installations not of question. You closed the eyes. You do not want to know. Your life will be that one. Near to me. Me with you. In the forest of the life, in the middle of the large black trees. We will advance without lantern, just stuck one to the other. Also I have the bandaged eyes. I cling to you. I did not say myself it not to frighten 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
