If beauty is flower, make it fabric.
Look at our old-fashioned flowers.
A storm that changes their aspects, the sun which consumes their bright colors, but which will never make them fade.
This color, like an inner fire who will never cease, to burn his heart, and to freeze his tears, at all ages of his life.
These colors that pass, to make room for all those that remain to be seen,
All the ones she left in the eyes of the people she met,
Those who have tinted his memories in black and white and bowed his back to him,
Or on the contrary those who made his heart shudder and exult the body, for a moment,
The colors she went to look for on the other side of the world as answers,
Or those she discovered and loved madly during a trivial meeting.
Call her, the girl with the white hair.
Beautiful and sweet child, Old child, who will forever remain that of her parents.
I dedicate this text to all the children whom life has aged and who doubt.
Experience intensely and manifest without restraint.