Under the golden dome of an ancient temple, Where dreams are adorned with divine fabrics, A ballet of shadows and lights awakens, The curtain rises on a hymn to textiles.

With a white thread, the past whispers to the lapels, A masculine coat, austere and sculptural, Opens in cadence on the velvet of a dream, A dress undressed, draped in mystery.

The colors rise like fiery notes, Burnt orange, deep purple, eternal black, The silhouettes soar, chiseled and free, Capelines hemmed with a thread of desire. Jackets curl up in protective cocoons, While belts embrace the waist, Closing with one gesture the promise of the evening, Opening with another on a shiver of audacity.

And there, in the dance of skirts and pleats, The pants become accomplices of souls,

Sharpened legs, undone buttons, Freedom runs under the caressing fabric.The wind clings to ethereal blouses, the silks whisper forgotten stories, the tips stretch, the seams sing, a fabric opera, an ode to the ephemeral.

And when the lights finally soften, under the echo of hushed applause, the last thread falls asleep on the stage, fashion has danced, and Paris has loved.