English Version
gothique et romantique

This morning

Publié le 7 Jan 2015

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This morning, the frost extends on the fields and near. The sun is rising. I leave to meet you. Of a given step. This idea opening the doors of eternity to me. In the one morning old air covered in mist. I know. That you are there to haunt. Wood and forests. To play. With you to approach. Of to accompany me. The light heart. To amuse you. Of my distressed nightmares. With me to ask. If, you did not forget me. For you to be about it in alley. One evening, in the night of a sad evening. A long time ago, since so much of years. It is almost unobtrusive. It is not true.  For you, I do not want to imagine it. For me, it is the fear of my days. On standby of a sign, a breath to hope. All to start again. As so of nothing was not. All at the end of an alley. The breath of a scented air. The recall of memories to accompany you. I dare to dream. To find you. At this hour when one was going to trail. Among the one morning old shades badly awaked. There was. Glowing sun, corrosive cold, your frozen hands. Our measured steps. Not to fall. On the icy ground. Our pond with imprisoned water. Under a compressed ice. Silence, the last moments of hesitation enters the night and the day, the idea. To embrace itself. Cold of your nose. Our amused smiles. This morning, the frost extends on the fields and near. The sun is rising. I leave to meet you. In remembering this past. I do not know if I will meet you. There remains to me happiness to imagine. A less value not to regret. Not to have sought you. The batch of my days. Desperate waiting. Of a past. Evaporated.

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

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