Time passes and I weary myself
There is in the dream this light which rises beyond the hill in a white color. There are the violins which attack the acute ones whereas your steps lead you towards the feature of light. You have the feeling to advance, to approach, go up towards the trees. You forces on your steps. The slope is hard, painful, testing. Since always, you want to reach the top to know what there is behind. This light attracts you. You speak to me about it, the morning with the alarm clock. Each day. You repeat me your waiting. Time passes and I weary myself. I will like to carry you in top that you can, that you stop doubting, question me, that we leave this vicious circle. I do not see the hill, the light about which you speak to me. You so often told them to me that to imagine them is not useful any more for me. Will I be able to recognize them, so only you knew where to locate them to me? But you do not have any reference mark, if in fact the dream carries you each night. To explain, understand it, I of it am not able. Is It needed besides? Not, you live, coiled in him inside. He lives you, haunts you. You learned how to like it. He separated us. Each night, you tackle the first steps on the hill. You go up. You stop. I understood it. You do not wish to reach the top. You do not want to really know. I know your complexity. That was part of your charm. Front. But, today, time passes and I weary myself. Your madness is not any more one charm but a weight in charge of trouble. I refused to take the hand to you to assemble with you the hill. I can that I would have gone in top, until the end, to know, tell you. But that would have killed you. Then, the come night, I flee. We are nothing any more but comets which cross in the black sky of a life without future. There is no more in us of light for still hoping to conquer tops together. Time passed and I wearied myself.
Lire la suiteThe moon tear
Transitory moment of happiness. Crossing the vault of the skies, in languorous the one evening heat of summer, on your castle a moon tear ran. Rebounding on the white stones, the windows with small squares, the gravel ground, it was stretched. The sheep did not raise the head, too absorptive to eat. This gleam lasted, if little lived little, causing regrets so much. There remains only this image about it giving to its memory the grace of eternity.
Lire la suiteIn the garden of my muse
This small hour, in the garden of my muse, I went myself from there. The fog extended, mixing lovingly with the fog, intertwining with the branches of the trees. Licking their feet, being coiled on their knotty chests, it was spread out over the bed of the dead leaves, over the wall of a sky without life. Its voluptuous forms became deformed under the caress of the wind. My hand was tightened meeting only the skin of a transitory body. My muse is thus. Losing my reference marks, I was inserted in the vaporous forest, according to a way without end, goal. I did not have any of it. Behind me, the night was closed again, enclosing me of its pressure. I felt his presence. It was enough for me.
Lire la suiteThe eye of the day
This morning, the sun rose on the cellar of my secrecies. It entered gently, so slowly that I felt it to penetrate, preparing me with its intrusion, its questions. I hid in the darkest recesses of my insulation, the reducing one, not wanting to face this world of light which attacks me. In the cellar, under the stone vault, the calm, silence are my more faithful companions. It made fresh there whereas outside the dry grass, the flowers miss water, the sheets curl up. I see this sun going up white, aggressive, extreme. It will enter by the small window. That which is too high, that I, that I cannot reach cannot close. It is the eye of the day. This intrusive, inquisitive eye. The sun entered, I knew it. It lit the first stones of the window, then extended on those from the vault. I felt his heat. With it, the visitors of the day entered, discovering the underground crypt of the church where I am in hiding since so a long time. Always same remarks, same anxious glances. I have the habit. They are in search of phantom, of a phantom. They seek me, never see me. The days of summer, when the eye of the day violates my intimacy, I funds on the walls, run on the ground, slip between the stone slabs. I remain invisible.
Lire la suiteThe cherubs played in the sky
On the other side of the street, the windows of the large house gray are closed by white metal shutters. Gray walls, a black iron rail. They never open. The day, the animation of the street, the cars, the pedestrians pass in front of without the least attention.
Gray, sad, the walls of this large house are impersonal. It resembles so many of other dwellings of the street. There However, a day, a man alone came to live. He spoke with the wind, with the moon, murmured incomprehensible things. Its trailing step, was hesitant, as that of a child who too quickly grew. Its face, old man, had something of childish. Its eyes, malicious, facetious, were not in their place on this wrinkled face.
With the arrival of the night, the gleams of the reverberators, the silence of the moon, cherubs through the white metal shutters escaped, flying in the sky. To see them, it was necessary to open its heart with the mysteries of the night, to hear their cries, their joy of escaping. When, in the large house on other side of the street, maternity closed, posed its white shutters on its windows, plunging the rooms in a major black, the cherubs felt forsaken.
It is this day when the man arrived.
It folded up the shutters of a window, opened an eye at the large house. Each evening, a light ignited with the ceiling of a kitchen. The man only ate, sitted with a table, making great gestures. In old maternity, the children, without parents, ran in the corridors of the house. Died, they did not make noise but the breath of their races disturbed the man taking his meal. It rose, extinguished the light, plunging the large house in the darkness
It was the moment when the reverberators ignited in the street.
Through the shutters, the cherubs escaped, continuing in the sky, the great recreation of the night. On the paving stones of the roadway, cats passed from a nonchalant step, looking at the kids of the sky continuing. In the church, near, the cherubs played hide-and-seek behind the large red stone pillars; pressed on the keyboard of the organ. The music went up in the vault of the church, awaking people. Each evening, it was thus.
It was the moment when the man left in the street.
He frightened, grumbling, spitting on the ground, going painfully, being pressed on his cane. He moved towards the church, looking at the bell-tower, howling of the incomprehensible words. The organ stopped. Silence returned. In the street, its strange powers gave birth to terror. Its house became that of the fear. People were diverted, avoiding passing in front of, panicking. The man felt it.
It is the moment when it decided to close the only open window.
The gray house is now closed. The white metal shutters are closed. There is no more light the evening in the kitchen. Certain evenings of storm, the inhabitants of the street say to hear cries of tears of children leaving the large house. They are in charge of distress, of abandonment. Nobody any more is there to keep them.
I am on the other side of the grid
There is this window, this grid. There is inside this other window open on which space? I will never know it. I always remained on the bad side of the wall vis-a-vis the grid, with the closed window. You do not open it. I imagine a dark, sad part where you do not come. You must live other side in the light. A garden, flowers, the sun, it is your universe. It is not any more mine since you isolated yourself from me. The bars of the grid are cold in spite of the heat of the last days. I touched them. I tried to draw above, imagining to twist them. Which madness? They are hard, stronger than me. You wanted them inviolable. They are it to protect you, to move away me from you. I saw your silhouette slipping furtively into the part, behind the window. I cannot affirm it. All went so quickly. I want to believe that it is you. But, I am not really certain. My memories mix. The doubt replaced my certainty. I am on the other side of the grid. The bad place if it is. That which you indicated me forever.
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
