Under the banner of Eternity, in our countryside, green and white ladies parade. Their wake is of incense; the pale of their shroud claims a secret. They extend the night, and call us in vapors that teach the echo so much, that they are afraid of their cries. Any genius loci provokes air currents and modifies our trajectory. In France, in each pagus, some castles are governed by the fairies; with each of their sighs, a stone is flaked.

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The fairies do not lean any more soon that to the dreams of our joys, so much the melancholy burns our will. In the mutuality of this isolation, we meet the forgotten ones. They, in their sky; we, from the highest of our exile. Assigned in the darkness, forms receive there our gleams. Orantes, let's hold the torch that melts the past, we embody it. Let us leave in this world where the presentiment alone is measure of the high things placed. The eye, consumed in the well of Time, has seen candles shining near bodies long faded. The glance advanced as a boat in the dark water, let us listen to the doors sing. The ghosts irrigate our memory and adapt themselves in us as long as they make new flesh. As an encore, let us descend the Oblivion. Left behind by Death itself, the Ladies are waiting for us there; the Ankou made them go down under the pretext of changing a wheel of the carriage, then abandoned them there. Then, our intimate shroud, which is melancholy, becomes their down.

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