Palais Royal, Musée du Louvre
Theorem ends of the world
Whipped by winds laden with salt, foaming squall attacked, knocked out by tireless waves, here's a tip of the dying world . The elements, however, violent and tyrannical, do not reach. Not that he feared the water, the wind is not likely to win. This side of the world at dusk suffocating under the burden of idiots trampling of misfits of all kinds. They spread by the liking of the pilgrimages of the plates without foundation, and dig the granite of their bottomless stupidity. By dint of prejudice they attack the rock. The ends of the world, gagged and attached to the earth by these despicable links, rear up in vain under the lash of the executioner. Slowly through the crowds syphilitic beats, they are transformed into images gently docile.
They are hunted, it dims their prospects, saturating the horizon of our eyes opaque, there violates hours and deserts adolescents.
We want to find the edge of steep cliffs an excuse to finally stop racing too vain. On blank backgrounds, dreams can crawl lazy quiet. A continuous rumble, stabbed several times by the cries of birds sea, are silent consciences in lack of eloquence.
is what we search, this is what we find.
few brown rocks and gray bowed to wear waves stubborn. Off the haze of the escapees, singing shipwrecked, those lands that had made them sick strong. Faces wrinkled by the harsh light, contorted by the wind flying, grinning gaze in a mirror too honest. Indistinct sounds and whistling in ears reddened by the cold, penetrating the abyss dug by silence. And then the white birds that pierce the sky, and long arrows to trace, inviting us to follow them. But the crowd drawn does not fly. It barely rises to heaven.
I'm up like them on the edge of a platform, and covering my eyes with an unsteady hand. I scan the end of the tunnel where escape routes, awaiting the appearance of life-saving lights. The horizon suddenly began to roar, and life happens in a violent storm. The doors open and flowing waves bursting on the platform. I bathe in a sea of bodies pressed stirred. Floating on the waves like a skinny foam, a metallic voice sketch a few words: "Palais Royal Museum Louvre. Palais Royal, Musée du Louvre. "
The metro go splashing a few more human waves. All their eyes staring at me, and stand by their looks translucent walls, before breaking down on me when the doors open. The tide brings its share of defeated faces, faces rebuilt, desperate species, exotic smells and reflections misleading. Some treasures lost, resurface from the depths, run aground here. Birds of prey, white and liars, roam continuously above the endless stream of castaways. J'ancre few times my two feet on the platform, playing withstand such furious currents. Reflux already sucking me out to sea, and the gaping doors rush my neighbors. On them the doors close and the train takes them to these places curious: the future for them in the past for me. It makes us strangers to some vague recollection of a few metros to each other. My stoic reflection on car windows is mixed with a hundred faces. The features of foreigners involved in my picture, share a moment my immobility. For a time a little deformed morphology mine. What will remain about those fingerprints?
On the platform against my body slips heat from other bodies. It's a sweet oil covering my skin, warm and velvety. It rarely affects me, but I caressing warmth. That of a breath, that of a bare arm, they radiate around me. Every moment lost world touches me. Some deported, others leave, and uprooted, rushing through all this mess as quickly as possible.
I enjoy the luxury of being motionless when everyone flees. It is good to be resigning from all these soldiers. Here, the door between the worlds is always ajar, and life rushes in drafts. On this platform crowded I'm almost there. That's my side of the world, in the heart of the city. I can imagine her sweet solitude, his broad outlook. Where so many others escape, my delight is to stay. I let me run around the life and looks away from the train when I'm older. On board I notice, sitting and resigned, following me an evil eye, that I should be. My armor orphan disappears in a crowded car, and my bare skin breathes through every pore musk inhuman city suffocating. I stand with feet together on a pocket handkerchief. I feel free, gently caressed by a world that passes and grazes, and I finally cajole with the softness of indifference. I should stifle me and I relish the thought of gray in this infinity of rising air above me, where this white column stretching my mind, my new horizons that finally emerges. My freedom
precariously above my head, I walk slowly towards the gates of the palace, happy as a drunk lying in a soft drink, becomes an acrobat on a long steel wire. This is the thread that twists to follow dance steps. But fortunately the drunkard will ever know.
The door of the palace is guarded by a few violinists. Arching me, I avoid the blows of bows. Soldiers musicians to launch my pursuit of Baroque masterpieces. My ears are struggling painfully and break these siren songs. How many hostages bewitched, aligned in rows petrified, never crossed the doors of the palace? I sing in my head to kill a cacophony. I walling in these dissonances, I cross the door, barely scratched by the bows of violinists. I caught my breath, adjust my head above my freedom in a column, and puts down my armor of false notes. Here melodious silence resonates. I open and my eyes look painted the walls of the castle.
I'm in an asylum, in the heart of the garden the world of men has surrendered. As they escape the madness here in the world. The reason away in a subway, the moral agony at the entrance of the palace, a violin string around the neck.
The thick walls compress the universe. It rises in vain trying to overflow, but the columns stretch endlessly into the clouds. Dark galleries surround the garden with a ribbon of thick darkness. They offer many opportunities convicts that pierces the day sometimes. Daggers of light leave white scars along this cloister. A little light comes into the garden, do not look out. I would turn for hours in these galleries, walking spiral down towards me. I spend a few nights alone. Hide behind some columns of speakers, they trample if we were not careful. Their cold remains they observe the round that I dance every night. One sometimes comes up to me, grabbed me on the wrist or ankle and sings in my ear:
"You cross the icy night galleries,
Changing men around you as strangers. Erasers
you so quickly exchanged glances?
columns without name yet have a past, and the red stone
before our
kisses ... Who am I?
Am I the cold body of a wounded lover?
Look in my neck of the traces you left, my body
On your touch have carved marble
The inhuman badge of love forgotten. "
I listen without looking. When I look back, it disappeared. Line running between the columns of disturbing noises.
I sit on a bench with a book in hand. The sun bleaches thought the pages and words escape to some gray area. The pages turn, the words escape. The book is almost completely white when my brother joined me. In silence, he changes the words a few fleeting glances much. His lips move in the eloquence of his eyes. Still lost in opium, which made him appear cottony, it reassures me:
"Here I put everything away, our games, our fears are safe.
Everything is in place, you will recover everything.
Here nothing has changed, the years between us
fill the distance that sometimes separates us
Blooming silences that climb to the columns.
And along these ivy, we assemble all
We will have fun hats that these people Have
nailed their heads to keep their mind. Ours
evaporates from childhood
A permanent summer distills our reasons. "His voice
soft and soothed is lost in the vegetation. The lindens
under the sun cry a subtle fragrance. At their feet are sometimes raises dust rose. It comes powdering their leaves, giving them a dark green grave solemnity. Roses to the beauty carnivore sharpen their spines. Behind fine mesh, they burst out laughing, calling their victims by launching their nose heady scent.
My pants up at the top of my calves, I bathe my bare feet into the blue water of the fountain. A jet of water in the air sends joyous singing and fresh amid the tawny dust. I press against the gritty concrete of the bottom skin of my soles, and I walk towards the water jet, almost paralyzed by the pleasure of the water caress my legs. I send my eyes into the air with jets of water, and they sparkle like drops too crazy, before falling into a gleeful roar. On the edge of the pond, an old girl up on his pride is getting ready to dive. She undoes her hair, losing eight inches and almost as many years, and disappears into the wave. She reappears later, in another appearance, surmounted by a lily.
"- it is not bad today!
- Pardon?
- The rhyme, a young man I find it amusing.
- Do you ice does not Madam? You seem to shiver.
- I tremble for my friend I'm cold for you. You grab the dead, beware!
- Because I am afraid ma'am, especially to catch cold.
- Dive is my friend, better lives than die shivering warm. You will see the rhyme is good it can be done quickly!
- My feet already there bathe, and my body freezes at every step.
- You're so cautious, so fragile! Clown protecting yourself that way you condemn. The tide rises. So dive before it overwhelms you. You learn to swim.
- I can Madam, let me awhile.
- Hurry you young man, the evening approaches, and the rhyme is less forgiving at dusk. Pick today the roses of life, do not wait until tomorrow ... "And the rhyme
overwhelms the apparition.
night fell, an opera dance between the columns of the back door. I am and give myself some time to him. Here I am again outside the palace. I feel in my back the hot breath of the horse of the Place des Victoires. He drove me to my house, I hear his hooves on the pavement in Paris. I told him about my day, it leaves me at my doorstep, and I fall asleep finally at the end of the world. I am alone, I crush a wink that violate the anonymous my dream, I populate the streets of poetic creatures.
0 comments:
Post a Comment