The party was beautiful like every year. They danced from hand to hand, day and night, the gardeners admired them, caressed them, kissed them. They celebrated their strength, their flavor. But younger, finer ones arrived and relegated them to the bottom of the garden. Tragic fate of winter carrots.

Everything is calm now, the gardeners have left. The wind is coming from the right, from the east, so, in a last survival reflex, they huddled together. This time, death will not be cold. Already, the black of the after supplants the pink of the before.

It's the end of an era.

Ritual of the seasons.

Nostalgia.