English Version
gothique et romantique

At the end of the night

Publié le 5 Nov 2013

romantisch, gothique, romantique, gotisch, rêve, fantastique, fantastisch, sombre, dunkel, traum, romántico, gótico, soñado, oscuro, fantástico, romantico, gotico, sognato, scuro, fantastico, porte, eau, pierres, , eau, see, mer, cimetière, croix, poème d’amour, lettre d’amour, roman gothique, poème romantique, lettre romantique, poème gothique, gothique et romantique, larme, église gothique, mélancolique, mélancolie, nuit, night, dark, sombre, memories, souvenirs, melancoly

The heavy tears of the trouble run on the monotony of our lives ridge of slow and learned gestures. Along years and days without nights. Just lit by throbbing the anguish of our open eyes to wait. End of the cursed opera which did not have to be heard. That of our love born not to live. Just given birth to few hours with tending towards excellence. That one tasted like a summer without winter and white frost. So for a long time I will make you offense of it. There to return, twist the past to rebound. Towards our cruel future. Shelled by a singer alone vis-a-vis us in the abandoned opera. Where we had taken refuge one day of rain. There believing to find the shelter. Meeting there only the hell of the thunder and the flashes. Carried by an invisible orchestra with the drums hammering. An end of the world which one has a presentiment of. Above flies, carried by the wind, a voice. Soft, that of an angel, fragile like you. Who was the wrong to stick to me. That I could not detach from me. Sat one beside the other, we listen to the cursed opera of our lives. To ravel emulously. In the throbbing repetition of this evil that I force to you to try to flee. Without reaching that point. Unrelentingly something retains me with you. Don’t I know what? Quite simply that, I cannot live without you. I cannot acknowledge it. You know it. You wait until time passes. We have all the time. Very stopped in the air weighing of our slow gestures. When we were dying. The breath being reduced court of our lives. We agreed to remain there while listening. The cursed opera which joined together us. Who never will not stop. I do not want it. You do not want it. Our lives go thus. With which remains time. Waver under the wind the flame of our candles. The notes of the cursed opera haunt. We are the only ones to listen to it. Fall the tears heavy from the trouble running on the monotony of our lives ridge of slow and learned gestures. Along years and days without nights. Just lit by throbbing the anguish of our open eyes to wait. That the wind carrying us falls down. On the wings of a singing angel. Over the thunder and the flashes of the cursed opera. Making colors of my hell. There, where since years I am in hiding.

le sang de la nuit, la naissance de l'ange, decouvrez le dernier roman de steffan urell

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