Just before winter, we went back to the Blue House. Nothing had changed, the golden sun, and the shadows.
The big wall of the terrace had fallen at last, after three centuries of thinking.
The old horseman was still stuck in the stone since 1200.
The winter flowers were growing, spreading year after year, on the Blue House’s land.
The spirits were cheerful, eager to see.
Us, the fire and the Black Cat.
La Tarte aux Grenouilles 