Prologue to Memoire d'Ardente

It was glowing Parisian evening...

...burning skies made the artist of dusk lay their sparkles on crossings of streets, where perfumes and cantoes played passions of live reveries. There He found himself being lost or being led by some chance or some charm into the story so ardent that even a fire itself could never resist its intensity.

“Would you buy me a rose?” – spoke a woman of careless sense to a passing-by stranger, but He wouldn’t have heard, being possessed by his recent denouement, if She hadn’t caught the man’s hand, intruding with innocent smile into his unreality.
“Would you care for bringing some joy into the world of unfortunate woman, monsieur?”
“What?”
“By buying a rose...”
“Ah, well, ok...” – mumbled He in a hurry, being awoken from his slumbering mind.
“The Memoire, monsieur... I always wanted them in my garden”.
“Why don’t you have them there?”
“Haven’t got any garden... But if I had, I would have called it the Garden of Love. It’s from the Blake, you know?”
He nodded, paying for the rose.
“William Blake, yes. But here’s the one I love most:

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.”

“How beautiful... and sad,” – She sighed, and cherishing the rose He gave her She sighed again: “Unfortunately, she’ll die. They always die... but don’t you think, monsieur, ‘tis better withering along with someone’s passion, than just being left one of the many in the garden whereto is lost the path?”
“Which means destroying life for just a blink of pleasure?”
“Which means devoting life to the greatest and highest orgasme ardent! The one you shall always remember and ever be willing to have, overcoming the death!”
“You’re sick...”
He was fading away, but Her voice followed him like the echoing wind:
“Yes, I’m sick. Just like you. Like this rose, though she doesn’t know yet. But now she became the prologue for our story, and she will keep our memories in blood. So different memories of passion... les airs de memoire d’ardente...”

It was after the night of despondent delusions, when – risen like phoenix from ashes of past maladies – He returned to that street in the glowing Parisian sunset and met Her again, and the rose of pallid désir. They walked silently towards the moon within hail like dreamers that chose to be strangers to love though consumed by the burning hot passion. Thereby they inhaled possession...
Then after a while He spoke:
“It’s going to rain. I know one pleasant café, where one could enjoy the music of lamenting weather. Would you come with me there?”
“I could buy you a drink…”
He smiled, and inside of his eyes roused delirious glare.
“O, Rose, tu est souffrante... si humaine... si ardente...”

Thus began this melodic affair...

Here you can listen to the Memoire d'Ardente band: http://www.myspace.com/memoiredardente