Gothic and romantic

At the end of the road, at the end of the fog, there is this old church. We will join it at the fallen night. To Reach its doors to stop us, us to rest. So Many of other walkers did it before us. Direction their hearts which accompany us playing hide-and-seek in the fog recovering us. The branches of the trees drip of rain. The flowers violets carry diamond rivières. The volcanic black stones shine on the grassy ground.  In the vast quiet extent, the birds do not plane any more. Sometimes, the sound of your steps recalls me your presence behind me. It is the last bond which binds me to you. We advance like two phantoms on the mounts abandoned. Our walk will end with the door of the old church, over there, so far it seems inaccessible. Silence is heavy, heavy. Lost, our eyes betray us without reference mark. Sometimes, a tree leaves the fog. Giant with the tentacular arms, thin with the emaciated body, it looks at us. Firm the eyes, hears the song of the angels which fly above us. Listen, yes listening. They are addressed to us. To go, go to burst some, to join them, run on the mounts, to plane on the valleys. More not to suffer, damage themselves to join dreams. To release, give up themselves, lie down on the way. Nobody will see us in the fog which buries us. To play with the angels in races without end. It is enough to tighten the hand. Yes, you can it. I want it. But the noise of your steps returns to me like an echo. You stumble, falls, I you raise you. It is necessary to continue, go, advance. The song of the angels disappeared. We are only again. Fog, cold, loneliness. The weight of the bag on the back. The breath runs. So many others lived it before us. To think, give a goal to resist, not to lie down, tighten the hand with the angels. At the end of the road, at the end of the fog, this old church appears. Hand in the hand, we join it. To Enter inside, to rest and like forever under the protection of the angels.