In all the songs of the East, the love of the nightingale for the rose resounds.
In the silent, starry nights, the winged singer serenades his fragrant flower. Not far from Smyrna, beneath the tall plane trees, where the merchant drives his laden camels, proudly raising their long necks and heavily stamping over a ground that is sacred, I saw a blooming rose bush. Wild doves flew between the branches of the tall trees, and the wings of the doves shimmered when a sunbeam glided over them, as if they were made of mother-of-pearl.
In the rose bush, there was one bloom more beautiful than all the others, and for her, the nightingale sang of his love's pain, but the rose was silent, not a drop of dew lay, like a tear of compassion, on her leaves; she leaned over her branch above some large stones.
"Here rests the greatest singer of the earth!" said the rose, "over his grave I want to scent, I will scatter my petals upon it when the storm strips them from me. The singer of the Iliad was laid to rest in this earth from which I sprout! I, a rose from Homer's grave, am too sacred to bloom for a poor nightingale!"
And the nightingale sang itself to death!
The camel driver came with his laden camels and his black slaves.
His little son found the dead bird and buried it in the great Homer’s grave; and the roses trembled in the wind. Evening came.
The rose folded her petals more closely together and dreamed, - she dreamed it was a glorious sunny day.
A group of foreign Frankish men came by; they had made a pilgrimage to Homer's grave.
Among the strangers was a singer from the North, from the homeland of fog and northern lights. He broke the rose, pressed it in a book, and took it with him to another part of the world, to his distant homeland. And the rose withered from sorrow and lay in the narrow book that he opened in his home, and he said:
"Here is a rose from Homer's grave."
Look, the flower dreamed this and she awoke and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from her leaves onto the singer's grave; then the sun rose, and the rose bloomed more beautifully than before. The day grew hot, for it was in hot Asia.
Then footsteps sounded, foreign Franks came, just as she had seen the rose in her dream, and among these strangers was a poet from the North; he broke the rose, pressed a kiss on her fresh mouth, and took her with him to the homeland of fog and northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower's corpse now rests in his Iliad, and as in a dream, she hears him open the book and say:
"Here is a rose from Homer's grave!"
A delicate, barely bloomed pink rose, in the morning dew, the grass still fragrant from the droplets that sparkle in the first sunlight. The world is still fresh, the light transparent, a gentle breeze brushes over the delicate petals. An early hour, not yet touched by the busyness of the day. Still dreaming, childlike, astonished, awakening to the garden world, such is the impression of this delicate fragrance.
It reminds me of roses like Rosissimo, Rose Ikebana, but also Chloe's Rose. First nestled in much delicate green, slightly citrusy.
Later, bright woods join in, bringing warmth, but also more seriousness. It changes the character of the rose, making it creamier. It didn’t have to be this way for me; I would have liked to maintain this mood. However, nothing here comes off as soapy, no opulence, no oud or patchouli creates oriental fireworks; this is a small smiling dreaming rose, self-sufficient, and that is sometimes, after all the olfactory heavy meals, like a small simple dish that lives only from its naturally tasty ingredients.
And - it reminded me of Andersen's beautiful dreamy fairy tale.
Top Notes 
Green notes
Citrus notes
Heart Notes 
Rose
Blossoms
Base Notes 
Woods
Ambergris
Hermesh
JoaoMartins
Floyd
Gandix
Verbena
Yatagan
Parma
Hannah
Achilles
Sweetsmell75
