English Version
gothique et romantique

The travel without end

Publié le 24 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, mélancolieThe music of time beats slowly. On standby of you, in front of the window. Black, only open. The music of time strikes patiently. Whereas in me the rise of a violent irritation accelerates. That I then to control. I hate this house in front of which I waited so a long time. To hope. That you kinds of this fold in which you immured yourself. Causing my impatience, only vis-a-vis this always open window pointing out your presence to me. Don’t I know any more who you are? My lassitude, my bitterness ooze on the trouble of your walls. I am not certain any more. To love you, want to wait on standby of you each morning. The music of time wearies me infinitely. Slipping into the throat of the sand glass these grains of days, these seconds carrying my frustration. My insanity. I do not have any more words to say to you even if you presented yourself. I do not have any more admiration. I come by practice, by repetition. Making my trip in front of your house the pilgrimage of my faded years. To have wasted them you to expect, you it phantom of my past. The music of time overpowers me completely. Pointing out each day to me that I trail myself a little more to pass in front of your balcony, I am tired. Of raising the head to hope that you kinds not. Because now, I know it, I come to hate you. I have such an amount of hatred to throw you. Too much late, I understood that your open window is this trap in which you imprisoned me. I put so many years to understand it. It should have been accepted that my reason gives birth to our ashes. In which came to be consumed our tender hours. The music of time slows down in poverty. On this voyage without end which I make each day. Like a demented person. Turning in round in the streets of the city gives of love. Drunk of you, drunk not to find more of exit to this labyrinth which carries out me to you. To love you, crucify you, without reserve, faith, nor law. Between joy and sorrow, resentment and lassitude, ready to bite in our memories to suck their last drops of memory of them. Those which I preserved to celebrate this disastrous day where I would have finally the force not to more come to see you. But, I lie myself. All the time. Not to die.  The music of time is repeated magnetically. Without I being able to act. On the irremediably fleeing wire of the years. Until I sink. Like stray, invisible, evaporated you, inaccessible. Finding you forever forgotten in the kingdom of the shades.

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

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