This tale is inspired by the latest Saint Laurent spring-summer 2027 collection
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud…
But am I truly alone? To ascend to the frontiers of paradise, we must present the passport of a weightless soul, a no man’s land beholding shoulders mantled in ratite burdens. And yet every cirrus recalls the downy wing, refracted by the leonine stars of August’s zodiacal patron. A seer foretold the turning of the winds, come to sound the temper of its celestial traffic. The peregrine falcon flees the tempest, the swallow knows nothing but spring, the eagle’s solitude cloisters the aliferous queen within the rocky vaults of her lofty aeries.
Baudelairean, however, is the ungainly eagle, swaying in that earthbound gait which betrays a nature fashioned for flight. She migrates through the squall, more metamorphic than the phoenix, which vanquishes only death, yet what challenge is that compared to surpassing oneself? Look, maiden, with your gaze lifted to the vault from which your very being descends: carbon, nitrogen, oxygen.
Burn, my child, burn. With the supreme potency of a beauty that endures, indelible, even when time bears us away. Look, maiden, at the tulle of your skirt, free to dance to the rhythm of your dreams; do not confine yourself, motionless, in a museum pose before eyes that blindly see the wall through you. Embroider yourself with the solar cycles coursing through your blood, dragon’s-blood red and orpiment yellow, manganese blue born of your chemistry with your primordial lover: the origin of the world.
Did the sky weep pink? Oh no, that was another poem. Silver rains upon your neck, the tears of fairies swinging on your necklace, and fear not, for they are tears of joy and delight. Do not conceal your winning cards, Queen of Swords, for love alone suffices to pierce the universe. The very love you pour into dressing yourself, emerging a woman from the same room that once saw you small. Now you wear heels and stand taller, you breathe differently than in the days when your nose was tipped skyward and your legs straddled your father’s shoulders. They hold you up still; in how many ways you resemble him. Put on the pinstriped trousers, the ones he loved, and wear them with the same grace.
In beauty you walk, of cloudless climes and starry skies, Byronic creature robed in cumulonimbus; no lightning strikes the silk of your conquests, yet yours is the thunder that rends the earth, proclaiming victory. In pearls or in stars, in the amber sparks of your cardiac fire, dress yourself, my girl. Dress, and follow the course toward horizons you know because you drew them; the sketches still rest between the pages of your planner. Dare crystals and feathers at full velocity, a rococo bow upon your shoe whose clicking heel becomes the fanfare of every entrance into rooms where, you can feel it, you alone exist. Audacity, my little one, the course shall never be lost. You are the daughter of yourself, Daughter of the Sky.
