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gothique et romantique

The moon does not have any more pity of us…

Publié le 23 Juil 2012

I often went, by the ways of the forest, to the cross. That lost, with the crossroads of four ways, in the middle of the vastness of dark and worrying trees. I do not count any more the number of times where I came. Since my first visit, I do not live any more but for the marvellous gleam which accommodated me. It alleviates me. Once again, I progress towards it. The moon clarifies my steps, choked by the carpet of dead leaves. The shades of the trees are done narrower, more discrete. The raptors stop whistling. Little by little, silence is done heavy, heavy, oppressive. I felt this impression at the time of my first arrival. This night when I had been mislaid whereas I sought you hopelessly. But that does not worry me now any more. It is, each time, similar. I came day without feeling this impression of marvellous heat penetrating me. The stone cross is traditional on its base, beautiful, without more. Whereas the night, the moonbeam which transpierces it projects in background another cross white which seems to float in the air. From day, it is not seen. It is translucent, unreal. Often, I tighten the hand it to seize but you me leashes never to approach. You left this evening fog in the large forest not to return never again. I sought you without never you to find if these are not the marvellous cross which in my imaginary replaces you. This is why, this evening, like the other evenings, I visit you. The forest avoids silence, offering a share of intimacy to us. There will be few things to say oneself. I will approach the cross, to sit down in front of it, to wait until the moon comes to cherish of a magic ray the cross, causing the appearance. I am afraid. Yesterday, it was not there. Days preceding too. Did the vacuum of our last meetings come to extinguish my imagination and the marvellous gleam? For several nights, the moonbeams have not touched any more the stones of the cross. My pain of your absence moves away, my mourning is done. The moon does not have any more pity of us…

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

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