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Tales of the Elen and Alan

Conte d' hiver 1996

The tale began on my 23rd birthday, the day where François Mitterrand was buried. January 11th, 1996. This tale ended on october 11th, the same year. Just before an interview of Dominique A, in her hotel room. He played this evening at Le Théâtre des feuillants. My last interview. I met Elen at a briefing for a student issue which I was the editor. She gave me two poems, the stranger poems I never read, the more beautiful too. She was the more intelligent girl I've never met, the stranger too. She studied english at the University of Bourgogne, in Dijon. She was the best of all students in english. I think, now, she has become professor of University. It was the thing she wanted. During winter, spring and summer debut, we gave life One Step Beyond on Radio Dijon Campus, each monday. We were the best, the stars.
I'd never seen her again since this awful day on grey october. Black october. Red october...







This is the end,

beautiful friend

this is the end,

my only friend, the end...


Insidious treachery. The music unfurls like the waves of a reacherous ocean.
In the heart of a broken up instant, merges my golden boby into a silver soul.
Inexpressible truth, driven into being of life, intrinsic contradictions to our
limitations. The organ's the limit.

Desolation. Interstices of a dispossed life, stolen from its source. Harrowing
open sores, rending sight. Flows like water the bitter decay of a soullness
world. Unbearable stench of desolation.

Misty dawn. Please let me in silence fathom the stifling dampness of your misty dawn.
The icy yard is the spy of evil, the great guardian of immediate decay, and the curious, eager eyes of nature in the face of time dug, from the secret places shroud me in proud disdain.
O wild cemetery, please open up your silken doors to me, your cruel fear is
vain : never could the wraps come off. Even the sparkling sap running from the
ancient pine's depths won't have me remember the obscured potentiel of my
luminous life. The weeping pine of Youth is bending over death, and its sticky
liquid on to the waving dark green grass that for ever the heavy grey stone tombs will remain covered with is leaking, freezing eternity.

H.D. in the winter of ' 96.

Falling from heavens, falling into hells


Copyright 2007 - Alain Crozier