English Version
gothique et romantique

Requiem for a phantom

Publié le 30 Jan 2014

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 song of the angels is assembled until the top of the vaults. Spreading themselves in the cathedral, indicating your doubts. Pointing your hesitations, your changes of road. In echo the weight of your regrets answers. That you transport without being able to support them. Without knowing where to throw them. Run on the stone the ink of your sins. Tracing in sanguinary veins the furrow of your regrets. Made culpability, unfinished acts that the song of the angels recalls. Of a voice engraves which bewitches you. Returning in the crash of a rebellious thunder. On the honey of the agreements of a violoncello. Playing the slow repetition of an old story. Entering your heart, coiling themselves in your body. Forcing your flesh until death. This last glare of light appears carrying gold. Hope of a forgiveness by forgetting your wrongs. Acknowledge whereas it is still time while you twist. Of pain, fear, rancour. The bit with the teeth, resistant until more hour. Not to weaken whereas you die. Your forces reducing itself for your greater misfortune. Assemble the song of the angels carrying the laughter. To see you dying. Pleasure of seeing you weakening without to have been able to appease. The hatred which continues to nourish you. With howling about it, vomitting some. Refusing the hand which is tightened. The call of your memories of child. When you smiled all the time. Who draw up themselves like the last folding screen. With your drifts, your torments. Beat the drum of the reasoning torturer. On the stones, fleeing between the vaults of the cathedral. In a fatal wave. Who traverses you plunging to the roots of the evil. Who sees you trailing yourself, to lap like an animal. The blood which runs out of your wounds. Strewing a body with the image which displeases. To be itself dedicated with the diabolic wandering of the sin. Drinking with pleasure the poisoned water of its excesses. The song of the angels will be able nothing to change there. Intends them from to go away, to give up you. Cry over the stone the murmur of the last judgment. Who has just condemned you. Forever. You do not like too much this word. Carriying in him of eternity. He frightens you, you did not go yet there. In this place where time solidified. In a distressed posture. Spreads itself on you distressing makes an attempt. To extinguish you of a slow death. Whereas the day and the night are linked in a guilty agreement. To extend their heavy mark. Nobody can nothing any more make for you. The angels were further gone from there than the sky and wood. Further you can imagine it, you phantom without faith, nor law. Eternity is in front of, just there, to touch of it the reflection of the end of the fingers. Place where blood in this place will run. Place where in the small hour the last bond will be distinct. With what retain you. A glance, a hand. A gesture which points out the life which was your destiny. Then, you will sink in the limbs of your tomb. Stone and the night closing again your vault. Without epitaph, a word.

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

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