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Jan. 16th, 2002 02:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petroniaI found my old old old old Angel Sanctuary snippet file.
The following is in the interest of driving you insane, my friends. Especially if you don't speak French.
***
[...] Paternel? Non. L’on s’imagine ces fleurs mauvaises qui ne produisent ni baies ni pollen, mais noient les insectes dans l’encens d’une nectare trop sucrée. Katan est-il seulement enfant?
“Tu as été ici, qu’il me semble. Regarde-moi, Katan. Suis-je beau?”
“Vous êtes beau.” Il se penche sur la main blanche de Rociel. Vieilleries de troubadour: “vous êtes beau, vos cheveux sont glace et rosée, vos paroles un exhalaison de parfum, vos mains des tourterelles en vol. Votre bouche soûle du vin secret des roses. Vous êtes beau. Vous êtes beau: la prière, la mer invisible, les étoiles qui noient de lumière trop lointaine sont moins belles que vous.” De quelles lèvres s’échappe ce soupir? “Le monde n’a jamais vu de pareil.”
“Quelle folie!” Rire cristallin qui vient se briser contre le coeur de Katan, qui ne se garde pourtant plus de remparts. Rociel ne rira jamais de joie pure. Doit-on croire qu’il puisse pleurer d’une vraie tristesse? “Suis-je le soleil, Katan? Suis-je la lune?”
La douleur est inadmissible, car étant ce qu’il est comment lui est-il possible de blesser Rociel-sama? La voilà la liberté, le voilà le prix qu’il paie cette putain! Il voudrait pleurer.
Ce n’est pas l’amour si je suis déjà tout à vous…
Ces lys épaves dorées sombrant dans l’écume de ses cheveux. Katan baisse ses paupières; il s’échappe du rêve.
*
Were a mortal to hear an angel’s voice in heaven, he would perceive it as wind and fire, crystal shattered by a whisper and prayer that parts the waters, a sweet and terrible clamor of bells. But mortals do not hear angels. (For the same reason that they do not understand love, if they have not been told what it is.) In Assiah, angels are pale and quiet creatures who have a little trouble hiding their beauty. Mortals spot them on the street sometimes, straightaway return home troubled and – not knowing why – dream.
For those who make their home in heaven, voices are merely voices.
“I dreamt I was dead,” he whispered. “Dead, and praying.”
“Praying? You.” The same soft monotone; harsher than any expression of disbelief.
“And can’t I pray.” No answer. Kira turned a page of the book, gently as if it were fragile.
“What is that?”
“The Confessions of St. Augustine,” Kira said. “No one you’d know.”
“Fuck no. You’d’ve figured that.” Kira didn't answer. After a moment Katou lifted his hand, brushing his hair from his face. His fingers came away damp from his temples.
“I was dead," he repeated. "The angels, you know, they only sang to each other…”
“Angels don’t sing,” said Kira, and his dark eyes were endless, endless to Katou, a place to fall and never recover. “It only seems like it.”
“And if they cry?”
“Same thing. You’re lucky. It means you’re nowhere close to being a prophet.” [...]
The following is in the interest of driving you insane, my friends. Especially if you don't speak French.
***
[...] Paternel? Non. L’on s’imagine ces fleurs mauvaises qui ne produisent ni baies ni pollen, mais noient les insectes dans l’encens d’une nectare trop sucrée. Katan est-il seulement enfant?
“Tu as été ici, qu’il me semble. Regarde-moi, Katan. Suis-je beau?”
“Vous êtes beau.” Il se penche sur la main blanche de Rociel. Vieilleries de troubadour: “vous êtes beau, vos cheveux sont glace et rosée, vos paroles un exhalaison de parfum, vos mains des tourterelles en vol. Votre bouche soûle du vin secret des roses. Vous êtes beau. Vous êtes beau: la prière, la mer invisible, les étoiles qui noient de lumière trop lointaine sont moins belles que vous.” De quelles lèvres s’échappe ce soupir? “Le monde n’a jamais vu de pareil.”
“Quelle folie!” Rire cristallin qui vient se briser contre le coeur de Katan, qui ne se garde pourtant plus de remparts. Rociel ne rira jamais de joie pure. Doit-on croire qu’il puisse pleurer d’une vraie tristesse? “Suis-je le soleil, Katan? Suis-je la lune?”
La douleur est inadmissible, car étant ce qu’il est comment lui est-il possible de blesser Rociel-sama? La voilà la liberté, le voilà le prix qu’il paie cette putain! Il voudrait pleurer.
Ce n’est pas l’amour si je suis déjà tout à vous…
Ces lys épaves dorées sombrant dans l’écume de ses cheveux. Katan baisse ses paupières; il s’échappe du rêve.
*
Were a mortal to hear an angel’s voice in heaven, he would perceive it as wind and fire, crystal shattered by a whisper and prayer that parts the waters, a sweet and terrible clamor of bells. But mortals do not hear angels. (For the same reason that they do not understand love, if they have not been told what it is.) In Assiah, angels are pale and quiet creatures who have a little trouble hiding their beauty. Mortals spot them on the street sometimes, straightaway return home troubled and – not knowing why – dream.
For those who make their home in heaven, voices are merely voices.
“I dreamt I was dead,” he whispered. “Dead, and praying.”
“Praying? You.” The same soft monotone; harsher than any expression of disbelief.
“And can’t I pray.” No answer. Kira turned a page of the book, gently as if it were fragile.
“What is that?”
“The Confessions of St. Augustine,” Kira said. “No one you’d know.”
“Fuck no. You’d’ve figured that.” Kira didn't answer. After a moment Katou lifted his hand, brushing his hair from his face. His fingers came away damp from his temples.
“I was dead," he repeated. "The angels, you know, they only sang to each other…”
“Angels don’t sing,” said Kira, and his dark eyes were endless, endless to Katou, a place to fall and never recover. “It only seems like it.”
“And if they cry?”
“Same thing. You’re lucky. It means you’re nowhere close to being a prophet.” [...]
