The walls of our cemetery
Look at the city being spread out in right and linear walls. . Where shelter dark beings behind. Observing by the windows the slow manufacturing of the mystery. Of an oppressive silence on the city falling down. With the deserted pavements. In the precarious calm. Of a choking absence. Go the bitter heart of a being of misery. Wandering on the paving stones recovering fossilize them past. In search of tastes and colors tinted of memories. Honey of this completed time where the bees flew. On the flowers of our orchard without fruits to be gathered today. Let the city be spread out in right and linear walls. Country of right and proud phantoms. That never nobody sees. Behind the opened out unhappiness of gray and cold walls. I think then of you. Running through wood. Happiness at the end of the fingers. It was, a long time ago. When we were children. Saved projection of the stone monster. With the totalitarian expansion. Who little by little factory walls of our cemetery. Where we spend the whole years. Without another horizon that a city which goes, conquering and proud to extend its arteries
Lire la suiteLes murs de notre cimetière
Regarde la ville s’étaler en murs droits et linéaires. Où s’abritent des êtres sombres derrière. Observant par les fenêtres la lente fabrication du mystère. D’un silence oppressant sur la cité s’abattant. Aux trottoirs déserts. Dans le calme précaire. D’une absence étouffante. Marche l’âme amère d’un être de misère. Errant sur les pavés recouvrant les fossilises du passé. A la recherche de goûts et de couleurs teintés de souvenirs. Du miel de cette époque révolue où volaient les abeilles. Sur les fleurs de notre verger aujourd’hui sans fruits à cueillir. Laisse la ville s’étaler en murs droits et linéaires. Pays de fantômes droits et fiers. Que jamais personne ne voit. Derrière la tristesse épanouie de murs gris et froids. Je pense alors à toi. Courant à travers bois. Le bonheur au bout des doigts. C’était, il y a longtemps. Lorsque nous étions des enfants. Épargnés de l’avancée du monstre de pierres. A l’expansion totalitaire. Qui peu à peu fabrique les murs de notre cimetière. Où nous passons des années entières. Sans autre horizon qu’une ville qui marche, conquérante et fière d’étendre ses artères.
Lire la suiteInside your house
To wander in a house which is not unknown. Under the glances of the dog and cat supervising all in reserve. My impromptu arrival. To touch the pieces of furniture by listening to them to shiver to be there by chance. Placed in the middle of an immense bazaar. Who strikes your memory. Decoration where you nailed the mirror. Of these things which can move you. To trail the feet on the parquet floor. Without making of noise, just carried by silence to slip without leaving traces. Fugacious passage. Going on the steps of thousands of joys and tragedies. By knowing that as a forgiveness they will have had the lapse of memory. Not to feel more suffers it from so many bodies which suffer. Sleep the absence bringing calms it one morning. On the reflection of a pane misted by the breaths of the cat and the dog. Careful guards. Of a deadened house. Where I would have seen you made sleepy. Higher on the floor ignorant of my passage. Made feeble in peeling. Thousands of animals taking care on your mirages. Bit shade of a sun on the one night old cemetery without the moon. Drowning your nightmares in clear water of a lagoon. The waves of a rising tide shine painting its scum. On the slats of a ground from where the shades escape. From your night driven out by the dark blows. Desynchronized clocks throwing time. In stolen pieces with the carnivorous eyes. Cat and dog. Invading statues. Having forgotten my impromptu arrival.
Lire la suiteDans ta maison
Errer dans une maison qui n’est pas inconnue. Sous les regards du chien et du chat surveillant tout en retenue. Mon impromptue venue. Toucher les meubles en les écoutant frissonner d’être là par hasard. Placés au milieu d’un immense bazar. Qui frappe ta mémoire. Décor où tu a cloué le miroir. De ces choses qui peuvent t’émouvoir. Traîner les pieds sur le parquet. Sans faire de bruit, juste porté par le silence de glisser sans laisser de traces. Passage fugace. Marchant sur les pas de milliers de joies et de tragédies. En sachant que pour pardon elles ont eu l’oubli. De ne plus sentir le souffre de corps qui souffrent. Dors l’absence apportant le calme d’un matin. Sur le reflet d’une vitre embuée par les souffles du chat et du chien. Prudents gardiens. D’une maison endormie. Où je t’aurais vue assoupie. Plus haut à l’étage ignorante de mon passage. Alanguie dans le pelage. De milliers d’animaux veillant sur tes mirages. Mors l’ombre d’un soleil sur le cimetière d’une nuit sans lune. Noyant tes cauchemars dans les eaux claires d’une lagune. Brillent les vagues d’une marée montante peignant son écume. Sur les lattes d’un sol d’où s’échappent les ombres. De ta nuit frappées par les coups sombres. D’horloges désynchronisées émiettant le temps. En morceaux volés aux yeux carnassiers. Du chat et du chien. Envahissantes statues. Ayant oublié mon impromptue venue.
Lire la suiteFly away
At the bottom of wood, or perhaps elsewhere, it was once. An open door on the unknown of your dreams. Enter, to listen to beat the wind on the strike. Trees balancing itself under the breath of your dreams. The alleviated waves of your lies sleep. Be occupied on wet sand, the barefeet. The hair gotten mixed up until the nodes of your moult. Eyes misted to be itself found. With nothing to wait. If it is not the wind gently alleviating. Of a resting dream. Give up your devils of the morning. Badgering your daily newspaper. The face deformed by the smile of too much knowing to lie. Skilfully masking your desire for fleeing, for betraying. The image smoothes your made up life of trouble. Further that the sleep of your dreams sleeps. Passions awake which your life drains like a sponge. To have been too much used to erase the tears of your dramas. Find in the unknown of your dreams the source to surprise you. There is only the attention to tend. To go, until the end of silence, to take. The movement developing chime of your rebirth. Dancing on the agreements of the blacks and white of a partition. Run up against the sky, knocks the ground, repeats your passion on the web. Borrows your words. In the slow movement of your revival. Go the barefeet at the edge of water. Drawing the transitory print. Of your steps erased by the sea. At the bottom of wood, or perhaps elsewhere, it was once. An open door on the unknown of your dreams. That it will be enough for you to push when you sign the truce. With these bonds which you manufactured for better blocking yourself. Finding in artificial the poison of your sky. Where any more stars do not shine. Except the night when the dreams weave the veil. Recovering the walls of your prison. Illuminant lights of this open door on the unknown of your dreams. Enter, to listen to beat the wind on the strike. For once. Fly away.
Lire la suite
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
