02/02/2019
Palonera
42 Reviews
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Palonera
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a break from time
I've seldom encountered a fragrance that's so deep.
Who already carries his understatement in the name, in so simple, modest, unpretentious.
"Incense pure.
Frankincense - nothing more.
You'd think.
And yet is wrong - so very wrong.
Nothing is simply "Incense Pure", nothing modest, nothing knitted straight ahead to the right.
Frankincense, of course.
Dense, light, rich, soft, resinous, creaky incense.
The cold, severe incense of the cathedrals and monasteries, the warm, contemplative meditating monks, the Easter fire crackling close by, pagan customs and samhain, of course, the coexistence of flesh and spirit, of once and now and evermore.
Clanking rough nights, campfires, dancing bodies and lamenting drums, thanksgiving in dry hay.
Woody soils, cracking wood, sunny clearing in the dark forest.
Old spice cabinets, the oak bench.
Winter air, a breath of snow.
Garden soil, frozen, stomped.
Old, dark gold, a little matt - a ring perhaps on old wrinkle hand.
Three kings in the Orient, the evening warm and mild.
Myrrh, not grumpy at all, not a grain of sugar sweet.
Warmth, hand skin warmth, arm skin warmth, innocent almost'.
I'm with you, not inside you.
Security.
A small step distance.
Quiet is "Incense Pure" and discreet.
The scent remains close to me, perceptible only to those whom my arm does not separate from me.
More aura than perfume, much more me than you, than all of you, all of you.
He doesn't turn me on, he makes me whole, he ground, he straightens me up.
He lets breaths and thoughts flow, dims the light and knocks out the heartbeat.
A pause from time, from the racing, robbing, a reflection on the war, on the actual.
And to that, I'm sure, what will be, too.
Who already carries his understatement in the name, in so simple, modest, unpretentious.
"Incense pure.
Frankincense - nothing more.
You'd think.
And yet is wrong - so very wrong.
Nothing is simply "Incense Pure", nothing modest, nothing knitted straight ahead to the right.
Frankincense, of course.
Dense, light, rich, soft, resinous, creaky incense.
The cold, severe incense of the cathedrals and monasteries, the warm, contemplative meditating monks, the Easter fire crackling close by, pagan customs and samhain, of course, the coexistence of flesh and spirit, of once and now and evermore.
Clanking rough nights, campfires, dancing bodies and lamenting drums, thanksgiving in dry hay.
Woody soils, cracking wood, sunny clearing in the dark forest.
Old spice cabinets, the oak bench.
Winter air, a breath of snow.
Garden soil, frozen, stomped.
Old, dark gold, a little matt - a ring perhaps on old wrinkle hand.
Three kings in the Orient, the evening warm and mild.
Myrrh, not grumpy at all, not a grain of sugar sweet.
Warmth, hand skin warmth, arm skin warmth, innocent almost'.
I'm with you, not inside you.
Security.
A small step distance.
Quiet is "Incense Pure" and discreet.
The scent remains close to me, perceptible only to those whom my arm does not separate from me.
More aura than perfume, much more me than you, than all of you, all of you.
He doesn't turn me on, he makes me whole, he ground, he straightens me up.
He lets breaths and thoughts flow, dims the light and knocks out the heartbeat.
A pause from time, from the racing, robbing, a reflection on the war, on the actual.
And to that, I'm sure, what will be, too.
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