And the horse rode along my page with his rider and shaded what I wrote. Slowly he turned its head, and as if it was afraid that I would read into its beastly heart, stretching out its muzzle to touch the Mexican sun. It sets off like a king playing with its eternal freedom, galloping even faster without worrying about the world around and brushing against the aficionados of Fashion Week, mixing the wind with its golden hair, but above all coming without knowing how to make Franck Sorbier’s dress undulate in the horizon of Neptune.

Today the space is splendid, without bridle or spur, but above all without restraining our spirit. Like two angels tortured by an implacable silk of organza, in the crystal blue of the morning. Oh, What a beautiful Mexican Amazon! Her young forehead radiates with pride, and the pleasure burns her feet with the happiness of galloping in such a place. Amazons born as daughters of “La Caballera” by Mario Luraschi’s Warrior Nymph, it’s not something you can make up. In the past, they lived near the Rio Grande and here they are alone to defend our poet of Haute Couture, Franck Sorbier.

I keep in my heart the tenacious imprint of the Maestro of Haute Couture, a French cultural exception, of which he remains to this day the sole custodian. You are a Great One, Sir, and no one will be able to take your place, so be it.

Anonymous.