Moscow Nights

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Ah in his own steps that walking is strange
As everything has changed and as nothing changes
This town isn’t the same after twenty years
And it’s still the same and it’s the same snow
The stars of the towers the long walls the
Merry-go-round
But the night is no longer dark and I have white hair

I no longer recognize the places where I pass
Pushkin crossed the square for a long time
And awkwardly like written words
The gates of the gardens on the winter candor
Seem to copy for couples his verses
Along the boulevards made for strolling

In front of
Tchaikovsky the street is yellow and white
December emphasized his stature and his sleeve Barely had the frost powdered his forehead
And the brazen gesture comes to suspend forever
A tune that sculpture is alone to hear
That a slip of
Zim does not even interrupt …

Moscow Night. Louis Aragon . (1897 – 1982).

The beauty of a photograph is made up of three essential angles: the frame, the brightness and the sound. Moscow Nights. Work of Gokhan Altintas Photography performed with his muse Natalya Kushnir in his workshops in Versailles.

Ah in his own steps that walking is strange
As everything has changed and as nothing changes
This town isn’t the same after twenty years
And it’s still the same and it’s the same snow
The stars of the towers the long walls the
Merry-go-round
But the night is no longer dark and I have white hair

I no longer recognize the places where I pass
Pushkin crossed the square for a long time
And awkwardly like written words
The gates of the gardens on the winter candor
Seem to copy for couples his verses
Along the boulevards made for strolling

In front of
Tchaikovsky the street is yellow and white
December emphasized his stature and his sleeve Barely had the frost powdered his forehead
And the brazen gesture comes to suspend forever
A tune that sculpture is alone to hear
That a slip of
Zim not even interrupt

Long necklaces of clarity outline the perspectives
The shade flees over the roofs at this late hour

And multiple
Babel has 1 assault on nothingness
Above the familiar maze of alleys
Blond buildings posted as sentries Star the darkness on their giant foreheads

oh log houses
Green awnings
Palisades
The traveler here recognizes the facades
The yard where the dvornik used to chop wood
The decor has kept the same architecture
But everything has changed scale and measures
Until the man of flesh and the sound of his voice

Here everything has grown, everything has changed roles

The very bridges have taken shoulder width

To get over the news
Moskva

The majestic docks in the stone escort him

The river is deep with the vapors it carries

And naturally at the
Volga goes away

Moscow does not stop growing and building
And as on his bed turns and stretches
A dreaming woman who betrays her thoughts
And look for new loves in his sleep
Moscow on all sides stretches its heavy limbs
By the phased construction of its roadways

She holds in her arms that she is stretching out in all directions

The future, her lover, the future in her dreams

And from where
Napoleon
Bonaparte saw her

On the
Butte-aux-Moineaux today
Mountains
Lenin

The future his child laughs at him and lights up

In the University carrying statues

Here I have dreamed so much walking of the future
That it sometimes seemed to me to remember him
And my fever took her bare hand in my hands
He sang with me the same crazy songs
I felt his breath and already our words
Effortlessly translated unknown things

Here I loved the night and the silence so much

So many times lost my steps like a childhood

So many times with pleasure I lost my way

So many times found my ghosts in tatters

Shadows of my past in a pereoulok

Whose name escaped me like water from my hand

That I finally have deep in my retina
Confused what is coming and what I imagine
Without knowing that all dreams are mourning today
That man sees the flame and cannot tell it
And if he no longer gets lost where our eyes were lost
Later by other fires his eyes will be seduced

The history between our fingers goes so fast
That in front of what was tomorrow will say
What was it

Forget about the refrains where our heart has rained
How to get used to what is beyond us
We called our cage space
But already its bars no longer contain us

To limit existence to our testimony

In vain of our tombs we mark the winnings

Alfalfa crosses the stone and unfolds

And our polished mirrors will have to recognize

Not the dead torches but those who will be born

And not our dream and not our law

In this century when war reached the solstice
Men deeper and black injustice
Towards the star their eyes turned in astonishment
And I was among them sharing their anger
Believing the next dawn to any brighter shadow
At all not in the night believing in the denouement

Star we forgot the pain and the fear
The minotaur at this bend in the Star labyrinth like water in our aridity
You who could be touched while going up the hill Star so distant star so close Star on earth star within my reach

I put its opposite instead of everything
I imagined life and its metamorphoses
Like a huge, engineered fairyland
It was a blue garden tinkling like a crystal
Where fabulous feet walked on petals
And yet the flowers were never withered

I expected happiness as big as the sea
And from dawn to sunset, the color of the chimera

A love torn from its ungodly chains
But reality hears it from another ear
And it’s her way that she does her wonders
Too bad for dreamers, too bad for utopia

Spring if it blooms and man finally if it changes
Is it elves or angels operation
Or lines of the hand for chiromancies
They will smile at us like false prophets
Who took the horizon for a huge celebration
Without seeing the nails piercing the palms of the
Messiah

They will smile at us for the best of the soul
They will smile at us for having loved the flame
To the point of becoming its food ourselves
And how easy it is to conclude after the fact
Against the burnt hand seeing its burn
We will be smiled for our dedication

That I took the wrong road a hundred thousand times
You sing about the negative virtues of doubt
You praise the paths that prudence follows
Well so I lost my life and my shoes
I’m in the ditch I’m counting my wounds
I won’t make it through the night

What does it matter if the night at the end is torn apart
And if dawn breaks, who will see it turn white
In the dark of misfortune I hear the rooster crowing
I bring victory to the heart of my disaster
Would you have gouged out the eyes of all the stars
I carry the sun in my darkness

Moscow Night. Louis Aragon . (1897 – 1982).

The beauty of a photograph is made up of three essential angles: the frame, the brightness and the sound. Moscow Nights. Work of Gokhan Altintas Photography performed with his muse Natalya Kushnir in his workshops in Versailles.

Weather condition
Hair color
Eyes color
Anthropological type
Colors

Brown, Green, Red, White, Yellow

Model

Natalya Kushnir

Type of photography

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