Ganymede Marc-Antoine Barrois 2019 Eau de Parfum
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Not a planet! - A favorite of the gods!
"Ganymede [...] is the third and largest of the four Galilean moons [...]" (Wikipedia)
"Ganymede, also Ganymedes is in Greek mythology a son of the Trojan king Tros and Callirrhoë [...] and the "fairest of mortals". He was loved by Zeus." (ibid.)
This must be how this fragrance came to be:
On the rock, half awake, half asleep, lies Ganymede.
Through heavy lids he sees how the noonday sun, in playful complicity with the silver leaves of the olive tree, paints patterns on his skin, as if its rays were light brushes and the shadow of leaves paint, which it dabs and throws and swirls.
His smile, which a moment ago was of his own beauty, falls dully from his lips, and sleep overtakes him in the midday heat.
On his skin on forehead and breast run glittering pearls; leaving, drying in the warmth, white traces. Were he to taste them, they would be salty - and sweet.
In his dream he sees himself standing on the white beach. Looking out to sea and into the distance. Far and far beyond still. He sees what all lies beyond it all. What to discover, what to fight, what to conquer, what to love and his feet stand firmer now in the sand.
Then he hears a rushing and a blowing in the distance.
A hundred storms seem to combine into one.
Then the clouds cluster, pile up, and join into the dark heavy cloth. Surround him. Blowing around him. Lay themselves over him.
Then there's silence.
Then he wakes up.
Then he lifts his eyelids.
On the stone, very near the eagle. His wings still spread from mighty flight and the last breeze still sounds rustling in his feathers.
Neither of them is startled. They don't need to be.
He is. And he is. Beautiful. Both.
Young manhood of one. God-kingly strength of the other.
Deep are the bird's eyes, and his gaze is on the man.
He leans on one arm, sinks his gaze into the bird's, and with a careless movement rises from his stone on which he has rested and dreamed.
Then he stands there.
And as if the movements of the two were one, the bird opens its wings and closes them around the man, encloses him, encloses him. And holds him. And time. And time. And time goes.
Then he opens his wings.
"Why are you crying, Ganymede?"
"Because from now on I'm a man."
"And why do you weep, Zeus?"
"Because from now on I don't want to be a god."
And both tears mingle on the ground.
That must have been how this fragrance came to be.
"Ganymede, also Ganymedes is in Greek mythology a son of the Trojan king Tros and Callirrhoë [...] and the "fairest of mortals". He was loved by Zeus." (ibid.)
This must be how this fragrance came to be:
On the rock, half awake, half asleep, lies Ganymede.
Through heavy lids he sees how the noonday sun, in playful complicity with the silver leaves of the olive tree, paints patterns on his skin, as if its rays were light brushes and the shadow of leaves paint, which it dabs and throws and swirls.
His smile, which a moment ago was of his own beauty, falls dully from his lips, and sleep overtakes him in the midday heat.
On his skin on forehead and breast run glittering pearls; leaving, drying in the warmth, white traces. Were he to taste them, they would be salty - and sweet.
In his dream he sees himself standing on the white beach. Looking out to sea and into the distance. Far and far beyond still. He sees what all lies beyond it all. What to discover, what to fight, what to conquer, what to love and his feet stand firmer now in the sand.
Then he hears a rushing and a blowing in the distance.
A hundred storms seem to combine into one.
Then the clouds cluster, pile up, and join into the dark heavy cloth. Surround him. Blowing around him. Lay themselves over him.
Then there's silence.
Then he wakes up.
Then he lifts his eyelids.
On the stone, very near the eagle. His wings still spread from mighty flight and the last breeze still sounds rustling in his feathers.
Neither of them is startled. They don't need to be.
He is. And he is. Beautiful. Both.
Young manhood of one. God-kingly strength of the other.
Deep are the bird's eyes, and his gaze is on the man.
He leans on one arm, sinks his gaze into the bird's, and with a careless movement rises from his stone on which he has rested and dreamed.
Then he stands there.
And as if the movements of the two were one, the bird opens its wings and closes them around the man, encloses him, encloses him. And holds him. And time. And time. And time goes.
Then he opens his wings.
"Why are you crying, Ganymede?"
"Because from now on I'm a man."
"And why do you weep, Zeus?"
"Because from now on I don't want to be a god."
And both tears mingle on the ground.
That must have been how this fragrance came to be.
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