A deserted city
One evening. Snow on the roofs, the pavements. A deserted city. White lights. Silence. To stop to listen to the noise of their steps. To imagine the animated streets. Or simply to dream. The absence of passers by. A city without inhabitants. A ground of end of the world. Without human beings suddenly. To go in the virgin streets of life. To seek without finding. Only between the walls with the sad lights. Snow choked their last breaths. Covered with a pretty blank paper. Remain above the traces of their steps. Last before this departure for an imaginary country where there is neither paradise, nor hell. To Go in the virgin streets of life until the moment when the lights will die out. To look at the day rising. For one according to. Where the cold will be cooking. Aggressive and violent one. To return to be heated. In the abandoned houses. With the large staircases climbing towards the tops. Where there are no more cries of children. Deserted rooms where it is heard that the wind. Slipping on the roofs covered with snow fleeing while howling. To only feel. Magic of the dream died in the guise of this shroud.
Lire la suiteUne ville déserte
Un soir. La neige sur les toits, les trottoirs. Une ville déserte. Des lumières blanches. Le silence. S’arrêter pour écouter le bruit de leurs pas. Imaginer les rues animées. Ou simplement rêver. L’absence de passants. Une ville sans habitants. Une terre de fin du monde. Sans êtres humains soudainement. Marcher dans les rues vierges de vie. Chercher sans trouver. Seul entre les murs aux lumières tristes . La neige a étouffé leurs derniers souffles. Recouverts d’un joli papier blanc. Reste dessus les traces de leurs pas. Les dernières avant ce départ pour un pays imaginaire où il n’y a ni paradis, ni enfer. Marcher dans les rues vierges de vie jusqu’au moment où les lumières s’éteindront. Regarder le jour se lever. Pour un d’après. Où le froid sera cuisant. Agressif et violent. Rentrer se réchauffer. Dans les maisons abandonnées. Aux grands escaliers grimpant vers les sommets. Où il n’y a plus de cris d’enfants. Des chambres désertes où l’on entend que le vent. Glissant sur les toits recouverts de neige s’enfuyant en hurlant. Se sentir seul. La magie du rêve morte sous le voile de ce linceul.
Lire la suiteThe roses
To gather. To offer them. To please to you. White, they hung at the edge of the way. I thought of you. This happiness to bring them to you. To imagine the glare of tone smile. To live this shared happiness. I took them over. White, they hung at the edge of the way. My fingers skimmed the tender petals. Soft as your cheek. Silky like our happy days. A bee ate sweetened, flew, frolicked. I deviated. It is in alley. I approached. White, they hung at the edge of the way. The sun rose over the small hour. The dew on grass was spread out. The paddle was born. I thought of you, to our go next. I could not come to join you without anything in hand. White, they hung at the edge of the way. My fingers seized a stem to cut it. The pink trembled, curved itself before folding. A pain, blood ran. The white petals were stained. Reds, they now carry the mark of my sacrifice. My pain is not factitious. White, they hung at the edge of the way. They are for you. I join you. To imagine the glare of tone smile. To live this shared happiness. There is nothing more good than to love you.
Lire la suiteLes roses
Les cueillir. Te les offrir. Te faire plaisir. Blanches, elles pendaient au bord du chemin. J’ai pensé à toi. A ce bonheur de te les apporter. Imaginer l’éclat de ton sourire. Vivre ce bonheur partagé. Je les ai prises en main. Blanches, elles pendaient au bord du chemin. Mes doigts ont effleuré les pétales tendres. Doux comme ta joue. Soyeux comme nos jours heureux. Une abeille mangeait le sucré, volait, batifolait. Je me suis écarté. Elle s’est en allée. Je me suis rapproché. Blanches, elles pendaient au bord du chemin. Le soleil se levait sur le petit matin. La rosée sur l’herbe s’étalait. L’aube naissait. J’ai pensé à toi, à notre rendez-vous prochain. Je ne pouvais pas venir te rejoindre sans rien en main. Blanches, elles pendaient au bord du chemin. Mes doigts ont saisi une tige pour la couper. La rose a tremblé, s’est courbée avant de plier. Une douleur, le sang a coulé. Les pétales blancs se sont tachés. Rouges, ils portent maintenant la marque de mon sacrifice. Ma douleur n’est pas factice. Blanches, elles pendaient au bord du chemin. Elles sont pour toi. Je te rejoins. Imaginer l’éclat de ton sourire. Vivre ce bonheur partagé. Il n’y a rien de plus bon que de t’aimer.
Lire la suiteThe tears
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.
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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
