English Version
gothique et romantique

The cherubs played in the sky

Publié le 4 Août 2012

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.

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

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