Paris des anges

Time upon them has done its work. It has left its mark on bodies, and century injured faces also grow old. Those angels have ended their heavenly journey and put an everlasting imprint upon stone, marble, wood, metal, which glazes the ancient frailty of their bodies. Only light adorns the figures, paints the feathers one by one, recreates the glances, and little by little their mouths let out a breath thought to be lost for ever in clear ether, suspended in bright sky.