L'espérance est violente.
Mirabeau, what a pretty word, peculiarly Parisian, suspended above the Seine. It composes a memory, joins another bank, and returns by following its trail of sandalwood, pink bay and cedar. In the heart of the City of Light, on the way to the twilight of the day, there is a bridge, a poem and a perfume.
A discreet and symbolic bridge, of the master-builder spirit which transcends borders, becoming better by coming together. Those solid foundations of cedar, sandalwood and orcanox span love and musk.
A poem as slow as it is violent, expressing the brutal and desirable hope of the one who would like to believe, of the one who wants to love. Vanilla, I write your name on the water, with muffled traces of incense and violet green.
A perfume to save us, fish us silently out of the water, bringing us above the Seine, our spirits on the water of our essences, bergamot and pink berry mingled with fig in a glass bottle, fiercely reuniting bodies in unison with souls, coming back to her by following her wake.
