In one night of flashes has spouts out a light running on ivy and the stone. Being spread out over the walls of a room to torn papers. Illuminant extinct sun history. Who deadened the children coming to rest there. A long time ago phantom of a past without a future. Letting the black settle crawling in a deafening thunder. Breaking the heart of the loves of yesterday. Lost in the steppe and the winter. Kidnapping the memories far from the house of childhood. Extinguishing the heat of the first years of insolence. Adolescence flees in the departure of those which lived it. Leaving the house empties without anybody to like nor to protect. Fall the tears from a professional singer singing the sad notes of a cursed opera. Crying the slow death of this cooled body. To have too much suffered to be forsaken. Reason in echo the song of black angels. Low Heads taking again with keep silent head the refrain. Of a future without hope. Leaving only the sand of a memory slipping by between the hands. Slow disintegration of a house being erased under a cluster of ruins. In one night of flashes inviting itself under drizzle. Indefatigably knock the beat of time like the metronome of a phantom opera. Tearing off the last forces of life, carrying the song of a professional singer pointing out these scars. Inflicted by the abandonment, covered by ivy like last artifice with misery. Being erased in the desert of empty parts of reference mark. That the night recovers of a black veil. The memory of those falls asleep then which lived it until their ultimate evening.
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
