One day perhaps…
I arrived at the end of the road, vis-a-vis the door of your garden. There is the entry of your home to far. I exaggerate, so near, too near. Some steps yet, I will be ready of you, finding our practices, sinking in the routine. Fire in the chimney, the night which falls outside, the flames which light our faces. Above, shades, too many shades. I don’t they manage any more to see the forms of your smiles, are contracted or slackened? I do not want any more to look at them. They are not any more that one deep past because the flames of the chimney created the repetition, monotony, lassitude, crumbling, carbonizing our passion. I understood it with this desire for leaving which attacks me. I did not manage to define it. I sought without finding. Then, there, now, at this moment in front of the garden, at the end of the road, I cannot advance any more. I want to move back. I do not have any more a force. However, front, I entered while running, you in my arms throwing you. What did it arrive to us? Not, it is not the good question. What will we become? Will we pour in the management of our misery? I will not like to know that you have pity for me. It is what I feel for you. I hate shame of it. I do not want that you read it on my face with the contracted smiles. I hide at the bottom of the armchair, avoiding the glares of the flames which badger me. I want only the night, the black, to hide, not to find the way, to lose themselves more, not to enter, that my absence is justified. But, I do not have this force. One day, perhaps…
Lire la suiteThe purgatory of the hearts
Beyond the mountains and hills, rivers and lakes, plains and fields, there is a city which one sees but that one cannot approach. It is very close there, with some steps only. It is there but never opens behind the ramparts of its high walls. The winter, one observes smoke escaping from some chimneys. It is the only moment of the year when it is known that she is inhabited. If Not, there is never noise which escapes from it. Silence is heavy, heavy, crushing. The city seems dumb, deserted. Much tried to approach some but it was moved back. Some lengthened the tread to catch up with it but the more they ran, the more the variation increased. It became the town of all the fears. It fascine as much. Above, fleet, permanently, a sky of black clouds. Often, the flashes traverse the dark fabric of the clouds. The cathedral, which takes care on the city, is sad, dark. On its walls, the black ink of the clouds ran, tattooed it. The night, no light escapes from the windows of its houses. Some affirm that its inhabitants feel neither the cold, nor heat, do not eat, do not drink. The night, their eyes are as sharp as the day. Others add that the inhabitants of this phantom city do not age, will never die. However, the mystery is whole. Why, the winter, some chimneys of the city do they smoke? What can they spit towards the sky? There is no wood behind the high walls of the ramparts. One never sees nobody coming to collect branches in the surrounding forests. However, chimneys smoke maintaining the mystery. Some tried to fly over the city. But, the clouds became vaporous, gray, dark, black, aggressive, responsible for thunder, of flashes. An invisible force closed the access of them. The summer returned like each year. Around the city, the trees made green, the sheets covered them. With far, the city remained fixed in its dark and black clothes. Around, the peasants continued to work in the fields, endeavouring to make raise wheat. It is there that they saw it arriving. Its white beard, its feet blackened by the dust of the ways, it presented itself to them, a stick with the hand, a wolf at its sides. Gray, of the eyes luisants, a hair shining, size of a sheep, white hooks, sharp-edged, the short, panting breath. The peasants were afraid of this infernal animal, quivered in front of its insupportable glance. They were moved back, protected. On the road of the city, the wolf engaged. The man with the white beard positioned in withdrawal. The miracle occurred. The city remained in its place, was not moved back. The large door of the ramparts opened in front of the animal, then was closed again on him. Silence became heavy, heavy, worrying. The man, with the white beard, tightened his stick towards the clouds recovering the city. He traced above a sign of cross, which was spread out of white like chalk over the table of the schoolboys. With far, behind the ramparts, the complaint of the wolf was made hear, lugubrious, deafening. The peasants protected themselves from the noise by plating their hands on the ears. But the complaint was so strong, that they fell on the ground, groaning, infuriating. Then, all the chimneys of the city were put to smoke, then to spit in the sky of the flames on which ran the stripped bodies of hearts fleeing of the purgatory. Howling, tightening their hands in a last call, they rose in the sky to disappear. Later, much later, the flames are extinct. The door of the ramparts opened, letting leave the gray wolf.The door was closed again, the sun rose, the city was dissipated behind the hot veil of the summer. It never again was re-examined.
Lire la suiteThe nudity of your tomb
I like the nudity of your tomb, the ground of dead leaves, the surrounding forest. I like the simplicity of tone memory, the song of the birds which take care you, the gallop of the animals around you in one night without the moon. I like the unicity of this place lost in the forest. It is necessary to want to find you. That arrived to me by chance, by inadvertency. Since, I forgot the address more of it, nor the place. There to return became easy, like a required passage to hear the forest, to like it. You were buried after being guillotined; you it abbot. It was during the revolution. A long time ago but since the hole where your head fell ever could be filled. There remains open beside your tomb. One speaks about curse, of legend. One speaks and one speaks. And you, in the forest, you rest in peace. On your tomb, one poses small crosses ridges of brushwood. In exchange, you for trifles are asked. I do not know if that goes or went one day. Is this really your office? Me, I like the nudity of your tomb, the simplicity of the place where you are buried. I had the chance to meet it.
Lire la suiteOur way of dreaming
Remember? Hundred times, thousand times, from the million times, we came on the quay to see the boats, the birds, the idlers. We walked, we dreamed. The cries of the gulls, the wind in the veils of the schooners, you remained dumb. Not to speak. To keep silent itself. To put itself in withdrawal. To accept the mysteries. It was the reason of our visits. The wake of a boat on the chart of the oceans. To assemble inside not procuration. To begin to melt. The cold, the heat, the burn of the sun, the water which streams with the salt taste. The waves, the storms, we visited all the oceans without moving. It was our way of dreaming.
Lire la suiteWhat is the life on the other side ?
In front of the door. To approach or remain in withdrawal? To dare the touch to push it. To hesitate not to skim it. What to find? Yes, that to find behind its rusted thickness? The desire for doing it. Y to think of bursting some. But to retain itself, to be afraid that so many things can appear behind. A step moreover towards it. It is too beautiful. Could its stone framing, its iron sculptures, the pleasure be bitter? In the beautiful one exists a share of ugly. I want it, I hate it. See behind. A step moreover. So near. It is still time to refuse, to return. To flee with the feeling of vacuum, cowardice, the tied tripe. Nobody will know it. It will be necessary to assume. Will remain this scar in the memory of my intimacy. To approach a tread to breathe the odor of wet grasses. They all keep the door drawn up. They were never trampled. To touch the door, to cherish it, feel it to breathe, shiver. Yes, to like, adore, dare. To turn the handle. To push. To open, enter, look at. To violate for a pinched glance? To give up, leave in peace the secrecies. To withdraw itself without to have scratched. To close without to have offended. To leave with the door the magic protect what is the life on other side ?
Lire la suiteBetween the walls of your past
Each end of the day, when the last flashes of the day ooze on the dilapidated walls, you return to live in the wreck of your devastated castle. You hate this day which attacks you, this sun which posts your erosion. Front, you liked them so much. It was, it does not have there so a long time. On the terrace in front of the green mounts, you extended bronzing, singing quietly. Then, there was, in this summer month, this horde of barbarians which seized you, of your goods, of all your hold. When the barbarians went themselves from there, fire finished consuming your past. They wanted nothing to leave. They offered to you in gift nothing like past, the vacuum like project. But in your immateriality, still remains in you, a trace of humanity ridge of this fidelity at the place where you lived. Each night is a made nostalgic return of volatility, of lightness between the walls of your past. You have until the night of times to give a direction to your life without present.
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
