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gothique et romantique

Our hidden tears

Publié le 25 Nov 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

In the cathedral of glass doze the bitter shades. Regret of our hidden tears. Not to be not left. Between the ground and the sea. Between these wild days and these frozen nights. Where we were held near. One of the other to heat us. But, I really any more do not remember these moments. There me remains only one scar about it. Ridge of doubts that I immured without artifice. In the book too quickly closed our lives.  To flee, to forget or lie? I do not know any more, I do not remember if few things, it is true. Time passed. Trailing between the soft hope of our administered chloroform to dreams and the idea to protect them. Like, I had promised it to you. It is thus. I did not forget the promises that I had you ridges. These memories to be preserved without scorning them. Your smiles, our laughter. All that remains to me to have fun. To make pretense be merry whereas your absence is a painful evil. Will I have to tell you? Or to make pretense be happy? And to languish itself? From a time when we were both. Trailing in the cathedral of glass. Between its shades and its mysteries. Moved away from the ground, closer to stars and their lights. To invent a world where we would be queens and kings. Without subjects, just you and me. Without rule, nor law. Playing on the back of comets while howling with keep silent head. The tears of a bitter violin cry. Telling the memory of our dreams amazed. Between the cords of a boxing ring where our are delirious us led on the ground. Glances against glances carried by wild eyes. Fall asleep on the furnace bridge of the martyr the languor of our memories. Goods or bad leaving only the regret of our hidden tears. Not to be never left.

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

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