Sous Le Pont Mirabeau ETAT LIBRE D ORANGE- Woody

Mirabeau, a few pretty vowels, strangely Parisian, suspended above the Seine to write the memory, to reach another bank, to return to it following its wake of sandalwood, pink berry and cedar. In the heart of a city that is said to be of light, going towards the twilight of the day there was a bridge, a poem and a perfume. A discreet and symbolic bridge, that of the builder spirit that transcends borders, becoming better by being united. Solid foundations of cedar, sandalwood and orcanox to step over love, embrace its musks. A poem as slow as it is violent, brutal and desirable hope for those who would like to believe, for those who want to love. Vanilla I write your name with the felted trace of incense and violet green. A perfume to save us all, silently to fish us out, above the Seine, alcohols on the water of our essences, bergamot and pink pepper intermixed with fig in a glass bottle, violently uniting the bodies in unison with the souls.