In the garden of my muse
This small hour, in the garden of my muse, I went myself from there. The fog extended, mixing lovingly with the fog, intertwining with the branches of the trees. Licking their feet, being coiled on their knotty chests, it was spread out over the bed of the dead leaves, over the wall of a sky without life. Its voluptuous forms became deformed under the caress of the wind. My hand was tightened meeting only the skin of a transitory body. My muse is thus. Losing my reference marks, I was inserted in the vaporous forest, according to a way without end, goal. I did not have any of it. Behind me, the night was closed again, enclosing me of its pressure. I felt his presence. It was enough for me.
Lire la suiteDans le jardin de ma muse
Ce petit matin, dans le jardin de ma muse, je m’en suis allé. La brume s’étendait, se mélangeant amoureusement au brouillard, s’enlaçant aux branches des arbres. Léchant leurs pieds, se lovant sur leurs torses noueux, elle s’étalait sur le lit des feuilles mortes, sur le mur d’un ciel sans vie. Ses formes voluptueuses se déformaient sous la caresse du vent. Ma main s’est tendue ne rencontrant que la peau d’un corps éphémère. Ma muse est ainsi. Perdant mes repères, je me suis enfoncé dans la forêt vaporeuse, suivant un chemin sans fin, sans but. Je n’en avais aucun. Derrière moi, la nuit se refermait, m’enserrant de son étreinte. Je ressentais sa présence. Elle me suffisait.
Lire la suiteThe eye of the day
This morning, the sun rose on the cellar of my secrecies. It entered gently, so slowly that I felt it to penetrate, preparing me with its intrusion, its questions. I hid in the darkest recesses of my insulation, the reducing one, not wanting to face this world of light which attacks me. In the cellar, under the stone vault, the calm, silence are my more faithful companions. It made fresh there whereas outside the dry grass, the flowers miss water, the sheets curl up. I see this sun going up white, aggressive, extreme. It will enter by the small window. That which is too high, that I, that I cannot reach cannot close. It is the eye of the day. This intrusive, inquisitive eye. The sun entered, I knew it. It lit the first stones of the window, then extended on those from the vault. I felt his heat. With it, the visitors of the day entered, discovering the underground crypt of the church where I am in hiding since so a long time. Always same remarks, same anxious glances. I have the habit. They are in search of phantom, of a phantom. They seek me, never see me. The days of summer, when the eye of the day violates my intimacy, I funds on the walls, run on the ground, slip between the stone slabs. I remain invisible.
Lire la suiteL’oeil du jour
Ce matin, le soleil s’est levé sur la cave de mes secrets. Il est entré doucement, si lentement que je l’ai senti pénétrer, me préparant à son intrusion, ses questions. Je me suis caché dans les recoins les plus sombres de mon isolement, le fuyant, ne voulant pas affronter ce monde de lumière qui m’agresse. Dans la cave, sous la voûte de pierres, le calme, le silence sont mes plus fidèles compagnons. Il y fait frais alors que dehors l’herbe sèche, les fleurs manquent d’eau, les feuilles se recroquevillent. Je vois ce soleil monter blanc, agressif, brûlant. Il va entrer par la petite fenêtre. Celle qui est trop haute, que je ne peux pas atteindre, que je ne peux pas fermer. Elle est l’œil du jour. Cet œil intrusif, inquisiteur. Le soleil est entré, je le savais. Il a éclairé les premières pierres de la fenêtre, puis s’est étendu sur celles de la voûte. J’ai senti sa chaleur. Avec elle, sont entrés les visiteurs du jour, découvrant la crypte souterraine de l’église où je me terre depuis si longtemps. Toujours les mêmes remarques, les mêmes regards anxieux. J’ai l’habitude. Ils sont à la recherche du fantôme, d’un fantôme. Ils me cherchent, ne me voient jamais. Les jours d’été, quand l’œil du jour viole mon intimité, je me fonds sur les murs, coule sur le sol, glisse entre les dalles de pierres. Je reste invisible.
Lire la suiteThe cherubs played in the sky
On the other side of the street, the windows of the large house gray are closed by white metal shutters. Gray walls, a black iron rail. They never open. The day, the animation of the street, the cars, the pedestrians pass in front of without the least attention.
Gray, sad, the walls of this large house are impersonal. It resembles so many of other dwellings of the street. There However, a day, a man alone came to live. He spoke with the wind, with the moon, murmured incomprehensible things. Its trailing step, was hesitant, as that of a child who too quickly grew. Its face, old man, had something of childish. Its eyes, malicious, facetious, were not in their place on this wrinkled face.
With the arrival of the night, the gleams of the reverberators, the silence of the moon, cherubs through the white metal shutters escaped, flying in the sky. To see them, it was necessary to open its heart with the mysteries of the night, to hear their cries, their joy of escaping. When, in the large house on other side of the street, maternity closed, posed its white shutters on its windows, plunging the rooms in a major black, the cherubs felt forsaken.
It is this day when the man arrived.
It folded up the shutters of a window, opened an eye at the large house. Each evening, a light ignited with the ceiling of a kitchen. The man only ate, sitted with a table, making great gestures. In old maternity, the children, without parents, ran in the corridors of the house. Died, they did not make noise but the breath of their races disturbed the man taking his meal. It rose, extinguished the light, plunging the large house in the darkness
It was the moment when the reverberators ignited in the street.
Through the shutters, the cherubs escaped, continuing in the sky, the great recreation of the night. On the paving stones of the roadway, cats passed from a nonchalant step, looking at the kids of the sky continuing. In the church, near, the cherubs played hide-and-seek behind the large red stone pillars; pressed on the keyboard of the organ. The music went up in the vault of the church, awaking people. Each evening, it was thus.
It was the moment when the man left in the street.
He frightened, grumbling, spitting on the ground, going painfully, being pressed on his cane. He moved towards the church, looking at the bell-tower, howling of the incomprehensible words. The organ stopped. Silence returned. In the street, its strange powers gave birth to terror. Its house became that of the fear. People were diverted, avoiding passing in front of, panicking. The man felt it.
It is the moment when it decided to close the only open window.
The gray house is now closed. The white metal shutters are closed. There is no more light the evening in the kitchen. Certain evenings of storm, the inhabitants of the street say to hear cries of tears of children leaving the large house. They are in charge of distress, of abandonment. Nobody any more is there to keep them.
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
