One month ago one year I do not know more
One month ago, one year, I do not know more. So for a long time I remember more. The vacuum and nothing came to replace our dashes. On banks of our walks to the son of the years. Gently, so slowly, hanging time. With the wild spines of pinks. Pushing at the edge of the beaches. Girdling our castle made sleepy in the black. Bordered of ciels nostalgic deadening our evenings. One month ago, one year, I do not know more. So for a long time I remember more. Imagining a life enters the walls. Kings, queens having proud paces. Horses gallopping on banks. Gone up by knights with the colors sharp. Moving away while shouting. In the disappearing distance. Leaving a spellbinding silence. One month ago, one year, I do not know more. So for a long time I remember more. The water cherished by the wind. Waves being formed. Arriving wind. Of a sweeping reverse. Images of an attractive world. Where we walked merrily. One month ago, one year, I do not know more. So for a long time I remember more. The sand of our mirages between the fingers was gone from there. The castle did not change. The pinks continue to push. Their spines to prick. Only, we evolved in the mirror of a time come to erase us. Giving to our silhouettes more clearness. Diffuse, they frayed. Transparent, forgotten. One month ago, one year, I do not know more. So for a long time I remember more. Remain only the decoration of our dreams. The days which are repeated without truce. Lovers who haunt the strikes. Before all is not completed. In a short history. One month ago, one year, I do not know more. So for a long time I remember more.
Lire la suiteThere is always a sun which lies down
There is always a sun which lies down. One black night that one touches. Eyes, glance, letting itself deaden. By the languor of a time come to daze. The weakness to have believed to hold. The world enters the hands and to dazzle itself. Building bridges to be conquered. Firm eyes; remember. Sun come to dazzle us. These escaped hours. Carried to have forgotten them. You and me. A slow fox trot carried by water. Believing in eternity or pretending to imagine it. In your arms, speaking with words about love. These certainty for always. Wanting to believe in it. Without seeking to know. That there is always a sun which lies down. One black night that one touches. Arrival to put an end to date that one would like without end. Cold announcing a new following day. Detaching your fingers among mine. Extinguishing the glare of the eyes, our glances, while letting itself deaden. By the languor of a time come to daze. The hope gives to have hoped to hold. A piece of eternity without managing to maintain it. Firm eyes; remember. Sun come to dazzle us. Stopped time, this fixed feeling. That around us come to disappear. Noise, fury, fears of dying. There remains only silence. This insolence. To hold the life between our hands. To play with without end. Your eyes mutineers. Our tender. Locked Up that one could release. While coming to break the crystal of our eternity. To find this idea. That there is always a sun which lies down. One black night that one touches. One pitches, drunk. On a raft thrown to the river. One derives in one black night covered from white frost. You are cold, you tremble on this road buissonnière. To go until the end of the end. We are insane. There is not that the insane ones. To cling together, fiercely. Carrying the eyes, the glance, while letting itself deaden. By the languor of a time come to daze. The weakness to have believed to hold. The world enters the hands to dazzle itself. By building bridges on water to be conquered. One believed oneself immortal. One day, it was most beautiful.
Lire la suiteDo you hear the sound deformed of the end of the world to approach?
Do you hear the sound deformed of the end of the world to approach? Do you feel your body to change under the violent thorough one? Bad wind come to sweep us. I see you shivering, me to tremble. I have badly all to see from to go away. I would like to hang up again me with the idea that nothing still passed. That all can arrive. I would like to awake me, always to hope. In triviums, details, all these things which hurt me and which I liked. I cannot any more, I do not know. What to touch, your skin, your hands, to kiss you. To twist the fate, to entreat it. To retrogress in the misted silence of our shared moods. To wish themselves, bicker, devour themselves, find themselves. You tell me that one should not panic. But I am afraid of the idea to give up us. More than the wind sweeping your hair gotten mixed up. More than suffers it from the awaked volcano. Who approaches, will burn us. There remain still a few seconds to be imagined. To seek the word, the gleam which will be able in your eyes to sparkle. I could tell you that I loved you. It is too banal, it is… Sad and blade summarized of all that you brought to me. The end of the world will consume us. Nothing to leave of what one was. I do not want to mark the history, nor to even remain. I cannot any more look at you. The black wrapped us. It will be necessary to forget. There will be the vacuum then eternity. Cold, our carbonized bodies. Perhaps our mixed dust? They will continue to attract each other. It is the idea that I want to take along whereas my body is quartered, broken. Will Remain this only truth. That we will continue to love us. In spite of our crumbled bodies. Forever. In the dust of the disseminated lapse of memory.
Lire la suiteAn unfinished book
Further the memory remembers. In an unfinished book the words of a text without hope Sleep. Write with the wavering light of a candle in the one evening half-light. Carved on paper with black ink. The removed the structure from letters of chopped sentences are the mirror. Of a sad and disabled heart liming itself in despair. Fear, not to know fear. Concern disabled more nothing to see. Were right of these words of love thrown through the mincer. Of a passion arriving at the end of its history. In a library or some share this unfinished book is on standby goodwill. Of a reader ready to doubt or to believe. That these letters can still move. And better than an old black book. They reflect a heart which does not have anything illusory. Because in them a spirit dozes in which one can still perceive. The sharp blood of an infinite love ready to be moved again.
Lire la suiteThe memory of a wheat field
There remains to me the memory of a wheat field. Rain falling, a softened ground. Clouds flying low clinging. With the branches of trees harpooning them. In the moistness of a stray summer. With the gray and spellbinding sky.Mystifying any idea to rest itself. There remains to me the memory of a wheat field. With the diluted gold colors yellow. Undulating in the wind until death. Putrescent in the middle of the vapors. Oozing one day until the night. Bathing in a torpor. Fleeing at the end of the infinite one. By not being afraid more. Unhappiness and pity. There remains to me the memory of a wheat field. Randomly of a forced march. Under the rain of the summer. Without seeking to turn over me. To see to disappear. The phantom of a memory. Behind the dense fog. Of a last offense.
Lire la suiteYou could forgive me
One night, a taste of rain. Lights, shades. A lack of desire. Very which sinks. Without being able to catch up with themselves, just release. A force come besides. Who worries, who frightens. I do not know any more. I cannot any more. A vague memory. The heart which digresses. Wings of a corbel. Black luisantes. All up there. The radiant moon. My steps which trail; insolente lazes. I would like to take your hand. To tighten. To reassure Me. I am alone. With this taste of rain. On my lips, my mouth. The eyes which are closed, I fall asleep. At the edge of the dream, so near to your body. I can imagine it. Touch. Of my hands of blind men. My remorses which plug me. Pouring floods of regrets. The images which are scrambled. Loneliness for pity. The heart which is soiled. Phantoms of the past. Wandering in the forgotten castle. That we deserted. Without managing to find us. I am nothing any more. Without country, shelter. I miss your hand. To leave the labyrinth. My tears are not pretended. You could forgive me. If you wished it. I do not dare you to ask it. You that I gave up. In a recess of my memory. Did you only exist? So Many things were unobtrusive.
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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
