English Version
gothique et romantique

The unfinished requiem

Publié le 6 Juin 2013

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There is in you a prohibited door. Behind which the ogre of your thoughts lives carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I have badly. There is on you this waxy dye.  Who makes that we will be never happy. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. There is on you this contracted stiffness which prevents you from moving. Our children in the same padlocked pause. Behind this silhouette sinks observing you. I do not see his eyes. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. There is in you this life in inside. That I hope, that I suspect. To feel me less guilty before the culpability holds to ransom me. For me. For you. For our children. To be left time. Existing of their milky face. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. Making us unhappy beings. On the chess-board of a devil devouring our last wishes. Eaters of our dreams flown away to the skies. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. The louse of our hearts desynchronized. Being erased in an unfinished requiem. That nobody will come to listen. Canticle dismembered with the prayer whispered by repudiated angels. Singing to bury our bodies of leprous. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. How to repair all this evil? There is in you a prohibited door. Behind which the ogre of your thoughts lives carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I have badly. The fever goes up in me. Cold in my bubbling arteries. With this astonishing feeling. To see my body not moving more become waxy. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. I pushed the prohibited door. Entering your world like a hypocrite. Breaking the ogre of your thoughts carrying the roots of this evil. Who lives you. Until death. That I will be able to never make leave your body. I believed in it. I dreamed some. I had made the wish of it. I blame myself. I blame you. To have left you only exposed far from us two. I will be able to never save you. Just fixed to look at you. Stiff, cold, alive in you your feelings in the greatest secrecy. Without anything to divide. With the time which brought us closer in a separate pause. I would have liked to be the ogre of your thoughts carrying the roots of an evil. Who lives you. Spreading its body syphilitic in the labyrinth in which you were mislaid. I would not have badly any more.

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

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