He carries within him the April forests where rain and sun alternate on the pearl-like sylvan. Opal light filtering through the foliage, the dreamer strolls under a dome of light woods. His steps lead him towards a marvelous encounter, a connection with his native land from which his hands cannot escape. He stands face to face with those slender, narrow, shiny leaves, rising under the wind in graceful waltzes, at the highest of foreign skies.
Flutter of wings, rustle of leaves, this vetiver, touched by a gust of fleeting pink berries, is one of those wise and pure breaths that leave an indelible mark on the mind.
Captivated by the harmonious union of ginger, he nestles in this root perfume.
In the hollow of his skillful hand, he arranges a few basil leaves whose light vapors rise in the evening air; the forest thus falls asleep in the final whispers.
Like long echoes merging in the distance, white musks converge in a dark and profound unity. It is in this endless field, vast as the night and as the light, that fragrances, colors, and sounds echo each other.
There are fragrances fresh and vibrant like flesh and soft like oboes.
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