It is immodest to speak of his works, which are both outlet and at the same time intimate.
The friend Xavier Gavaud, photographer-traveler, inveterate dreamer, agreed to put his pen down:

There are dots, white. Scattered here and there,
like thoughts not yet hatched.
They seem naked and fragile these mobiles without movement.
They must, perhaps, accompany the dreams of autumn ,
the nostalgia of another summer, a memory of winter, of tomorrow.
Or was it only in the space of a single spring? ... > Between hope and desire, the shadow carries its seed of light;
a green grain of madness, a red burst of wisdom.
Without any other goal, the points get tired and the birds die.
A long exposure is therefore necessary. She offers
time her own son when, finally, flies away and parades this

Nuée

Another day rises. At the end of a new light,
he will find his infinity there, sinking to the unconsciousness of him.
In the dark dance his own memory. That of time passing.
This secret haunts him since even a ghost disappears,
a myth is lost, a truth dies, an existence is forgotten.
There will never be more than passing . He wanders. He wanders. He builds up often.
He runs away sometimes. It is the moment, but does not support it.
In this fire, its state devours it. He can no longer believe.
He does not hope for tomorrow. Yesterday, always, repeats itself.
Then, only, it revives, and raptures, re-gives birth and is reborn,
amazed at this doubt. The one who, alone, allows him
to accept the beauty of being, there, like a

Phoenix en vol

Xavier Gavaud