English Version
gothique et romantique

In the labyrinth of my insomnia

Publié le 2 Déc 2013

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

Transport the colors of the distance. Of a light of a pale morning. Sun rising on the covered plain of white frost. The shades of the night, staggering, drunk disappear. The rays of a new day go up. Cherishing the ploughings. The nightmares of our insomnia fall asleep. Touch the slope of the staircase. Feel the cold of the winter on your stiff hand. Not knowing more why you did not sleep. Assemble the steps towards the light. Leave the cellar of your mysteries. Cherish the glare of the day on glass. Blow above not seeing mist being posed there. I knew it. Why listen to me? There remains to us eternity to lie itself, to betray itself. Lost to tremble. Hung by the idea. To die. Without never arriving there. Running like kids of the cellar to the attic. Wandering like serious and struck phantoms. Not to have more anything to imagine. Transport the colors of the distance. Of a light of a pale morning. You and me, hand in the hand. The fussy one to rise for later from going away. From your eyes a tear escaped. Slow to fall into silence from our absences. To only burst some. Die the hardly last hours without us to heat. Behind our window prisoners. The days and the nights pass. Us two to trail, immured in our insomnia. Assemble the steps towards the light. Leave the cellar of your mysteries. You, who since so a long time did not speak to me. I would have so many things to listen then to tell you. Like my bitter tears. Or these terrifying hours last to feel the cold in my arteries. You would think that I exaggerate. But how still to captivate you, made drunk you by the idea to sink? To leave me. Weary each once to repeat the slow rise of the staircase. To precipitate you. Towards the light of a pale morning. Transporting the colors of the distance. While hoping to find the key. The only able one to release us. I do not believe in it. But, for you, I make pretense of always being there. One is in vain nothing any more. I hold. This small wire which links us with the skeletons of our lives. Where we went the morning. Drunk in the cold and the white frost. To run on the plain of the winter. In the middle of its storms, its mysteries. Believer whom we would have eternity to love us. In the labyrinth of my insomnia this memory makes me hope.

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

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