The simple passer
A long time ago that I did not see you. I spend each morning under your window to the closed shutters. I will like to see you accoudée with the iron balcony. Like front. But you are not there, you disappeared. When? I do not know any more. I do not remember the last time where I saw you. The memories mix. I confuse the dates, the months, the years, your place in this clutter of the past which is encumbered, encumbers me. There is nothing any more but this window which attaches me to your past. It is hopelessly closed, sinks, sad with its sculptures which distinguish it from so many others. It resembles to you a little. You were different, particular, therefore I noticed you. But today, I do not find any more true reasons with this fugacious passion. There remains the practice to pass in front of your window each morning. The fidelity of a dog to a Master who gave up it? Not, I am not there. However, sometimes, I feel some so near. Stupid, that resembles to me more. I would be it still more if the shutters were open one morning while passing in front of them. I took the practice to see them closed. A comfort, an ease with my timidity. Yes, I should have approached you, speak to you before you disappear. But, I did not do anything of that. I looked at you by far before lowering the head while passing near to you. It is my nature. It will not change. I know that if one day you return, that you with the balcony, I settle would pass under your window while remaining this simple passer by of which you do not have any memory.
Lire la suiteAt the end of one night
At the end of one night without the moon, the sun rose far behind the mountain. In the one night cold icy, I liked this heat in charge of light. Raising the eyes towards it, I believed to see your face taking shape on the dark veil of the last clouds of the darkness. It was only one dream which the wind of the winter swept of a reverse. Disappointed, I returned with the absence of you.
Lire la suiteEve remember
A garden, a basin, one small hour. A garden, a basin, one evening without a future. Your empty chair. I remember. The feature of your pencil on the photograph of our memories, this exaggerated sun, its disproportionate glares. Made Up, transformed, your drawing ridiculed it. Us with. You wanted it, one needed it. Transfigured, this sun carbonized, erased, eradicated our truths. Two empty chairs. Ashes of what we were. Two beings in a garden in the small hour or the one evening abandonment without a future. That did not have importance, we liked. I believed it. , Sitting You in front of the basin. Me in withdrawal. I always liked our garden. Return. Erase photograph, these clouds, this sun, gives me one starlight night, make me hear the sound of the very close sea. I need to dream. I hate you. Yes, I hate you. For the evil that you made us. Was it Necessary that you are caught for god? We were so well in our garden. But the demon of temptation dozed in you with deepest. It was necessary that you cheeks of the pencil on the web skies. Our memories, our pleasures, you very modified with leisure. Free, stupidly. Yes, I hate you. To Vomit for all to leave, very to tell you. You will not listen to me. Turned back. Thus, you were. Your face, never I did not see it. But your chair was occupied. Accompanied, I felt secure. Very to tell you, it is to acknowledge itself that during these long years of loneliness you saved to me. That was enough for me. Te to say it would have caused to offend you. Did you understand It by leaving our garden, by destroying the softness of this small hour to offer the one evening without a future to me insurance? I return in the night. I feel it. I defend myself some. However, it is thus, it does not have there more room with the dream, with this garden, its basin. I do not run after you. Goes to the devil, you deserved it well. The sun definitively will burn the remainders of our largely consumed life. And then? But, it will not touch with the memory of this marvellous garden where the mornings were made days of following days. Our most invaluable good. Eve remember…
Lire la suiteThe devil decided to crucify you
Small growth, emerging from insane grasses, I saw you growing, drawing up you towards the sky, tightening your first sheets with the wind, the rain. Snow covered you during this first winter when I believed that you would not survive. You had disappeared, without air, light. But, in the one spring long-lived greenness, you branned yourself of your last flakes. Later, your arms came to offer this parasol of the summer to me under which I spent so languorous hours. You gave me the freshness of your protection, the comfort of your roots for most pleasant of the armchairs which I had to know. I often touched the bark of this powerful trunk to the knotty body; so extremely, so solid. There was in him so much insurance. The birds nested in the hollow of your branches, chirruping against the wind balancing them, tormenting them. The evenings of autumn, I admired the bed of dead leaves extending to your feet. It was russet-red, brown, but, of these beautiful colors with which you had gotten dressed in an ultimate glare. It had infinite these colors which I will be able to never paint on the web. I tested so many times, without never managing to restore the heart of it. That remains still a deep disappointment. There was only you to know to color the life with as much subtlety. But, one evening or perhaps a night, I do not know any more, very stopped. I had fallen asleep. The storm, the lightning broke the sky, jealous of your beauty, all at the top of the hill with green grasses, so extremely, so dominating. The devil decided to crucify you. It just tightened its finger towards you. Why? I would never understand it. I know it. You are nothing any more but one skeleton, a perch for sinister corbels which trample you, breaking little by little the frail branches which remain you. The winters with cold corrosive, the summer with the extreme breaths, consume you slowly, corrosive the remainders of your life, crumbling them. Of my step heavy and trailing, I resemble to you now. It is increasingly difficult for me to join you at the end of the road. Tomorrow, in the ground, with your feet, I will hide a handful of nipples to seal our destiny. One of them, will emerge a large, beautiful and strong oak as you were it. I know it. We will never see it thus. It is not asked. We require just the grace to see it emerging from ground, to draw up, expect the first snows coming to cover it. Under the white ECRIN, it will take this glare if conqueror to resemble to you. The history will be able to be prolonged, to reappear. Without us. Be-That which is important?
Lire la suiteThe prohibited bridge
I could tell you the history of this enlightened palate, of his solitary prince. To render comprehensible you, I would tell you that there is in a remote city, crossing a river with cool waters and dark, a prohibited bridge. With its entry two stone lions take care of the closed eyes. Slept each side of the roadway, they seem peaceful but their eyes of stone sometimes are raised letting appear yellow and cruel pupils. Never you will believe me because in your world the sculptures do not move, do not speak, do not live. However, in this city, the world is so different. Your reality does not exist. The stone lions are as frightening as those which you visits with the zoo. There, in this city, on the other side of the river extends on the hill a palate which is illuminated each evening. Few people visited it. Those which were introduced there from of ever returned. The most insane rumors run on this bridge, its guards, this prince who would be afflicted his loneliness.
I feel you attentive. Would my history have waked up you with this new reality? Firm eyes. Imagine. One black night and heat. Do you hear the silence weighing of this river which runs with your feet? You like his freshness. It makes you good. You want to open the eyes, to see this castle that your imagination has just drawn. You would like to know if reality is in conformity so that you feel. Do not forget that it must be immense, highly enlightened, with the broad windows with high columns. Trace with its feet, a bridge which connects it to you. You are there almost. I feel it. Go ahead opens the eyes, enters this new world for you. The castle is well as you imagined, the river also, the bridge; all is in place. It is not any more remained but to cross the river, to run towards the palate, to join the prince. I know that its name called you. The simple evocation of a hypothetical meeting had effect of your reason. To go up towards the castle is a risk which you want to run now. Remember the lions to the closed eyes. This recall is not made fear. I do not understand myself any more.
The play exceeds me. I told you these stories to amuse you, to distract you. I invented that by inadvertency, free, stupidly. You believed me. Too much. How to retain you? The day will rise, the lights to die out. The bridge, the castle will lose of their glare. You understood it. Now, you run towards the bridge, engages you between the lions with the closed eyes. I run after you to retain you. And, if my history were true? I do not know any more. Return! I beg you. I fear for you, for us.
You took lead on me. Just enough so that my hands cannot be clutched with you to slow down you, to stop you. You passed between the stone lions. I am relieved. My history was only one dream. If, you knew it although that makes me of realizing it! One moment, I had the feeling that all was so true. You run now on the bridge, towards the enlightened palate. I know that I will re-examine you. That reassures me. Your silhouette is reduced in the distance. Your tread is fast, more than mine. I am blown. In the east, the day raises a corner of night. In the sky one morning the white veil of fog takes shape. I stop at the entrance of bridge to benefit from it, to rest. Never, I will go further. The eyes, yellows and cruel of the stone lions, look me at the entrance of prohibited bridge.
Lire la suiteThe candle of the night
With your research, in the night of the Slavic capital, I walked, going along dark water of the Danube. A long time, so a long time… Choking heat, of a summer refusing to lie down, enclosed my throat. My steps were heavy. I was without reference mark in the middle of tourists lengthened on banks of the river. They came to seek there a freshness which would never come. Extreme, the night would not manage to detach the red iron mark come to burn the skin of the day. The shades knew it, undulating on water of the Danube, smoothing their forms on the tepidity of the lappings. The monuments of the city followed this ball, being exposed under the sharp glare of the projectors. Their stones were hot. This heat traversed the palm of my hand. I felt to beat the pulsations of their heart. There was in them the weight of a past that this enlightened reverberator. To be this candle meanly, but just enough under which you expected me and where I found 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
