English Version
gothique et romantique

My sleeping beauty

Publié le 25 Mar 2015

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Three musical notes in echo of our tragedies. Haunt the paper white with the cursed illegible scrawl. The fury and the flashes of lightning of a last night. The rain wetting your face. Your languishing eyes. Hair stuck on your image. This memory writes in division. On the sleepy illegible scrawl. That I decipher of a quietened down look. By touching slowly the touches of the keyboard. Of the organ saddened of past. Without anybody to hear it. In the crypt where rest  your ashes. I have the key of it. To come to watch you. To hope to wake you? Of the dream where you sank. My fingers caress the illegible scrawl of my nostalgia. The evening, at certain nights. When stars are our candles. Flash inconveniently. Remembering me by seeing them. That are lying about three musical notes there in echo of our tragedies. In the evening when you left. I wrote them. With frenzy. I grant it hastily. To accompany your memory. In the crypt beyond the black. When the door is closed. That I leave you only the evening. I have the hope. That you can read the illegible scrawl. Cursed or put to sleep, carrier of my nostalgia. I do not know any more. Used due to being read. I do not know any more. Damaged due to being browsed. It is so. It is my life. My fingers caress the organ saddened of past. By dreaming that the charm will stop acting. That you will wake up with a smile. I like to imagine it. My reason for coming to visit you. To caress the made languid illegible scrawl. Telling the history of our beautiful years. I told them to you many a time. I am stupid, you know them. About what of other one may I speak to you? Arched I am him. My life which runs away. I try to appear. By speaking about past. So that you can recognize me. The present is there to offend us. The only truth. And, these three musical notes in echo of our tragedies. That I play blindly. They have the smell of fields and wheat. Where we were going to wander. It did not change. If you woke up. You could verify it. We could return to it. I stop, I can only torture us. The illegible scrawl has no power. Without anything wonderful. It will never restore the brightness of your eyes. The happiness of our happy moments.  It wears only three musical notes in echo of our tragedies. That I play for you this night. You my sleeping beauty.


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

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