English Version
gothique et romantique

Without anybody to tell what we lived

Publié le 4 Fév 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

I like to think that one expects. In a maze beyond time. Taking the hours and second all gently. In the middle of high columns touching the sky. Across the rain and the clouds. Flying away on the wings. Of these dreams which one shares. Who carry us to seek us. To hope to find us. Without never hesitating, nor to doubt. There is in the labyrinth of our steps. This idea of living there. Behind of high walls, protected from all these things which return to us tired. In return for the night of our sarcophagus. Painted with the colors of our mirage. Both alive while seeking itself. Slowly to believe that one day one will see oneself. Or perhaps not? We will have had as a project to love us. Without dirtying this dream to imagine it out of forgery or truth? We will have believed in him, us, something. It is our wealth, the force of our steps so that one dares. To progress between the columns of our tomb imprisoning our ultimate secrecy. That which one could carry and protect. In the hollow of a thought to the armor-plated strong trunk. By all that one wanted to reject. For better giving up themselves, deriving, without impurity in happiness to dream us. Together, us lighting of our desire nothing for making with the only will to do it. Anthem emulously to lock up our past in a dusty museum. Of all that polluted us by diverting us of this only truth. Us to find, us to like, us letting carry. By the blowing fresh air draft enters the columns. With the flashes, the thunder which thunders. Shaken you and me by the fear, reassured to be joined together in terror. Distressed to be separate whereas one has just met. In the labyrinth, happiness on the face posed. It is as that which I had imagined it. Does not have fear, it is still better in truth. To have been able to approach you, touch you, to dare to speak you. In my dreams you did not have a voice. My hopes did not make the weight. There, it is different now. I know it with triviums, with your hand. Who tightens mine gently. Us going from there together in the labyrinth. Occurs what will arrive, my joy is not pretended. Holds either. Without anybody to tell what we lived. Without trace, without remembering right our shades which are erased. It is what we always wanted.

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

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