Phantoms of pale mornings

A door opened, slowly, letting appear. Steps, a light before not being. That an uninterrupted water flood carrying beings so much. With the drift carried by the torrent of a crowd moving. Forced march around another morning before the sky rises. Erasing the day before without being turned over as if nothing had occurred. So quickly forgotten, without any truce. For this progression without end on the single way to trace towards the distance. According to the walk of the first, fighting to remain it. Extinguishing the day; leaving only the black not to see more. Carrying a candle which does not have anything any more a spark. Single recall. Existence of these phantoms of pale mornings. Who cannot be caught the hand any more. Losing little by little. The originality which could have made them. Happy vagrants. On stonier ways. Far from the highway accessible and so easy to be flexible. The door was closed again, slowly, letting disappear. The last avoiding appearing. That a stolen image. With this impression repeated many times. To have seen passing this procession. Beings dead and buried without another projects. To add the blocked days. With the chain of worn thoughts. Worn the nap off with the stone of silence. Phantoms whose nobody notices the absence. Avoiding offense. To look at them passing. Each evening, of their steps forced by thinking that there is nothing to envy to them. If is not to protect itself. To fall on their paving stones.