On the crest oscillating between darkness and light, on the brink of the abyss, before being devoured by the icy fangs of the inevitable, the tender joys of spring and the torrid passions of summer put on their dresses fed with flames woven from a proud desperation.

Among the bright remains of the cohorts of dead leaves, the foam of tender memories stirs a soil curled up against the formidable frostiness of decline. The dawn is a tender memory at the zenith of life, and the burning dawn like a living forge, inhabited with an array of dreams, gnaws its sparkling tears of relief from the sky.

Finally the end of the hunger of living The hopeless, hoarse howlings and whisperings of the winds of a void unreeling its sterile guts in the childbirth of an opaque sleep rock calmly the awakening of the living. Refrigerant storms overlooking the orange strangenesses plastered in the beauty of a candle flame burned down to the final gulp of gory wax. It doesn't take much to appreciate the war cry of our mother in the face of the bitter conclusion of her mysteries, in the face of the powerless silence of the floods that freeze like the sap in its trunk.

A simple breath is enough to undress the trees of their armours woven with tongues. Time tears their flesh to leave only clues of life, monolithic skeletons loaded with boreal rains. The light crosses the prisms among the branches and imprisoned rainbow reflections graze those light rays of their kaleidoscopic voices. The last leaves stay bravely on the branches, their last colours blanched by the moulting. Nature peels under the hail of time.

The hidden subtleties of those coloured fragrances can do nothing against the reign of defleshed snow. Even the sun, sealed in its pedestal, is subjected to the infernal night and to its voracious gusts of tar.

The Moon stares at us with a mocking, crazy placidity, like the eye of the ghost of nature above the cemetery of our joys in arborescences of bloomings under the implosion of stillborn buds.

All there is left to do is to wait for the revolution of the entire planet. His breath of life is based in his frosty tomb. But in spite of that, autumn is a sign of hope, adorned with peaceful laughs before his fall.

During his journey to the bottom of the abyss, we see one last confident, conspiratorial smile from our mother to her children to reassure them, because one day, she will come back.