English Version
gothique et romantique

The purgatory of the hearts

Publié le 30 Oct 2012

Beyond the mountains and hills, rivers and lakes, plains and fields, there is a city which one sees but that one cannot approach. It is very close there, with some steps only. It is there but never opens behind the ramparts of its high walls. The winter, one observes smoke escaping from some chimneys. It is the only moment of the year when it is known that she is inhabited. If Not, there is never noise which escapes from it. Silence is heavy, heavy, crushing. The city seems dumb, deserted. Much tried to approach some but it was moved back. Some lengthened the tread to catch up with it but the more they ran, the more the variation increased. It became the town of all the fears. It fascine as much. Above, fleet, permanently, a sky of black clouds. Often, the flashes traverse the dark fabric of the clouds. The cathedral, which takes care on the city, is sad, dark. On its walls, the black ink of the clouds ran, tattooed it. The night, no light escapes from the windows of its houses. Some affirm that its inhabitants feel neither the cold, nor heat, do not eat, do not drink. The night, their eyes are as sharp as the day. Others add that the inhabitants of this phantom city do not age, will never die. However, the mystery is whole. Why, the winter, some chimneys of the city do they smoke? What can they spit towards the sky?  There is no wood behind the high walls of the ramparts. One never sees nobody coming to collect branches in the surrounding forests. However, chimneys smoke maintaining the mystery. Some tried to fly over the city. But, the clouds became vaporous, gray, dark, black, aggressive, responsible for thunder, of flashes. An invisible force closed the access of them. The summer returned like each year. Around the city, the trees made green, the sheets covered them. With far, the city remained fixed in its dark and black clothes. Around, the peasants continued to work in the fields, endeavouring to make raise wheat. It is there that they saw it arriving. Its white beard, its feet blackened by the dust of the ways, it presented itself to them, a stick with the hand, a wolf at its sides. Gray, of the eyes luisants, a hair shining, size of a sheep, white hooks, sharp-edged, the short, panting breath. The peasants were afraid of this infernal animal, quivered in front of its insupportable glance. They were moved back, protected. On the road of the city, the wolf engaged. The man with the white beard positioned in withdrawal. The miracle occurred. The city remained in its place, was not moved back. The large door of the ramparts opened in front of the animal, then was closed again on him. Silence became heavy, heavy, worrying. The man, with the white beard, tightened his stick towards the clouds recovering the city. He traced above a sign of cross, which was spread out of white like chalk over the table of the schoolboys. With far, behind the ramparts, the complaint of the wolf was made hear, lugubrious, deafening. The peasants protected themselves from the noise by plating their hands on the ears. But the complaint was so strong, that they fell on the ground, groaning, infuriating. Then, all the chimneys of the city were put to smoke, then to spit in the sky of the flames on which ran the stripped bodies of hearts fleeing of the purgatory. Howling, tightening their hands in a last call, they rose in the sky to disappear. Later, much later, the flames are extinct. The door of the ramparts opened, letting leave the gray wolf.The door was closed again, the sun rose, the city was dissipated behind the hot veil of the summer. It never again was re-examined.

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

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