English Version
gothique et romantique

The tower

Publié le 6 Fév 2013

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There is in the middle of wood, on the top of a mountain, a large tower. Its roof bursts the sky. Like the drawn up finger of a provocation to the paradise, the hell, the whole ground. The storms of the summer, snows of the winter are baited above to destroy it but they never have enough forces to break it.  Since centuries, it is there, resists the attacks of time, the words of the men. One does not know any more who built it. One does not know large any more thing besides. The legend reports that before the wolves, in band, came to lie down with its feet. That men died in front of his door. They wanted to enter, to protect, flee the snowstorm which froze them. They fell asleep died in the cold of the winter. The door of the tower opens only with those which have the key of it. The windows never light. It appears that pilgrims lost in the mountain saw it sparkling in the distance. That this light saved them, avoiding being mislaid. One tells so many things as the history of this woman who would live locked up inside of the centuries since. Some affirm to have seen its face looking through the panes. Too many silly things are said. I did not come you to tell them. I do not want to weary you. I am there to announce to you that I received the key from it. I can open the door. Together, we can climb the staircase of the tower which assembles all at the top of stars, so far ground, sea, the sky will do only one. You take to me for insane. I know it. How to convince you of the opposite? I hesitate since so a long time announcing it to you. The key fell from the sky, sent by the last which are assembled. They threw it as the stick of a relay which they wanted to transmit to us. Look at, it is between my hands. Small, fragile, I would have thought it more impressive, in keeping with a present which is made us. Why, don’t you want to see it? It offers eternity to us. It is the most beautiful present that we can receive. You doubts of me. You doubts of you. Are you afraid of my proposal? I do not know if you take to me for insane or if you fear to pass eternity to my sides. You do not know if your love will have this force. You are afraid, I feel it, understand it. You do not hesitate any more. You reject my proposition. I cannot hate you. All goes so quickly. The choice that I propose to you exceeds you. You are in a dead end. Refusing to go up the staircases of time. To live your life with back, not to know what could have been your many other mornings. I do not speak myself about future but about past. As if I doubted our following days. It is that which does you fear, more than all. You do not take to me for insane. I understand better why you refuse. By my fault, you do not believe any more in us.

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

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