English Version
gothique et romantique

The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano

Publié le 3 Juin 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

The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Enter to deepest of me. Shelling the partition of a phantom without interest. The cruelty of your notes plunged in my broken up body strike the mud of my nauseas. Splashing an image which I do not dare any more to face. That of the abandonment of all these things in which I believed. Standard of my thoughts, carried ahead like a crusader.  Without cause. Just because. Of all my cowardices. The throbbing melody of our abandonment is repeated. Note after note. Until the end of the keys of this piano of time. On which we bickered so much. With blow of notes distorted by our cruelty. That you spell. Like the litany of our sins. I hear their voices. Who point us finger. Showing us. Stronger than you, stronger than us. When we were insane. Hacking us in fights flared up like wolves. Carnivores, grabbed by a life which we had forgotten to reward. Times spent loving us. For better controlling all these futilities among which we were mislaid. The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Is the statement of a repentance. Who comes tardily reviving this pain which launches me. Planted in my entrails in battle beyond the evil to the edge of the fault. Where the vacuum calls me. Each one in our box. With these truths which we do not want to share any more. Without us to separate in order to anything save to us. Drowned in a swirl of vase. Finding in hatred the reason to root our sorrows. The slow repetition of your fingers on the piano. The plaintive sound which escapes from it. Penetrate each day a little more at the bottom of invading me, me. Present, pressing, darkening my perception of time. In a slow and progressive wear which lasts. That that you wanted, I am sure. Puppet dancing dismembered on these notes which you shell. Since this time when we decided to drive out the love of our veins.

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

Votre avis sur cet article ?

Votre adresse e-mail ne sera pas publiée.

This site is protected by wp-copyrightpro.com

This function has been disabled for Gothique-et-Romantique.