On the windows of lights. There, where the tears of rain cry. We saw flowering of the trees, of the flowers, to live marvellous gardens. We lowered the weapons. It grew dark, we were in conflict. That often arrives to us. So often. In this enchanted universe, we found peace. A few moments, if little, just enough. To forget our many times re-sifted rancours, our reproaches. To advance between the bright colors of this artificial paradise. Fallen from the sky. To reconcile us. To hope that this moment will go until the end of the night. At this moment when the sun will come to extinguish the lights of this imaginary garden. We will throw with-outside. Tomorrow, there will be no more tears of rain to run on the deadened windows. The dark walls will find their gray colors. Our faces too. I know it. I feel it. It has been only the night that we manage to thread us inside. In this country where we exist without time, nor hour. One finds oneself like front. Gently. By loving us. But, the magic is exhausted, I see it, I am afraid of it. You want less to come. To flee, go elsewhere. The tears which will run one evening on the windows of light will be those of my pain.
J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
