English Version
gothique et romantique

A never ending story

Publié le 4 Juil 2014

romantisch, gothique, romantique, gotisch, rêve, fantastique, fantastisch, sombre, dunkel, traum, romántico, gótico, soñado, oscuro, fantástico, romantico, gotico, sognato, scuro, fantastico, porte, eau, pierres, , eau, see, mer, cimetière, croix, poème d’amour, lettre d’amour, roman gothique, poème romantique, lettre romantique, poème gothique, gothique et romantique, larme, église gothique, mélancolique, mélancolie, nuit, night, dark, sombre, memories, souvenirs, melancoly

A room of restaurant for us two. Looking itself in the eyes. The night, days following. A room of restaurant where time lasts. Without pressing itself nor to hustle itself. Just the moment of living the moment to skim itself. Gotten mixed up fingers. The misted glance.Face to face accoudés. To listen. To tell itself. What one was. Before meeting. The melody of an authorized piano. The voice engraves of a hidden singer. To only speak to us. Stories engraved on glazed paper. Where others met. With a room of restaurant for them. Looking itself in the eyes. I cannot want. To know the end of their stories.  Spitting the black blood of a home.  Not that this evening. Neither now, nor never. I promise it to you. You and me at the one morning old dawn. Colored next days of drawings plotted with the charcoal. Posing the draft of our destiny. Since it is necessary to slashing the marked out way of our following days. There will remain always the force of our love. A room of restaurant for us two. Looking Us in the eyes. Drunk of the fruity alcohol of a liqueur-like wine. I want it. For you. For me. And to consolidate our days of the stones of our galleys. Stronger than all our wars. There high in the citadel. Swept by a wind which bewitches us. I like this old story. The tears which run your eyes. Impertinent Sign of a weakness. I have laze. To see one there predicts happy. My glance on the petrol of your sufferings. In exchange I propose a dance to you. In a room of restaurant for us two. Looking itself in the eyes. The night, days following. A room of restaurant where time lasts. Without pressing itself nor to hustle itself. Just the moment of living the moment to skim itself. Gotten mixed up fingers. The misted glance. For one night until later. Stuck without mask, make-up. While letting make the chance. I like the idea to be able to imagine. This history without end which could never not have existed.

le sang de la nuit, la naissance de l'ange, decouvrez le dernier roman de steffan urell

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