Top Notes 
Cardamom
Strawberry
Italian bergamot
Pink pepper
Heart Notes 
Bulgarian rose
Gardenia
Turkish rose absolute
Base Notes 
Tonka bean
Cedar
Oud
White amber
White musk
Berkanlenck
145 Reviews
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Berkanlenck
Top Review
17
The Sweet Flame of the Desert
As the sun began to transform the sky into gold and purple. The bazaar slowly exhaled; merchants rolled up their carpets, and a fine smoke of incense wafted from the alleys, warm and balsamic, as ancient as the desert itself. I paused to inhale this moment, and right then, the world of Luban opened up to me.
At first, there was something unexpected: a sweet strawberry, so clear and juicy, as if someone had placed a bowl of fresh fruit under the incense tree. It felt almost playful, a brief flash of light amidst the golden twilight. But hardly had I grasped it when cardamom and pink pepper joined in, a spicy tingle that reminded me that this place knew stories older than any fruit.
The path led me deeper into the market. Between the rolls of carpets and the heavy brocade curtains, a new melody suddenly emerged: the roses. Bulgarian, Turkish, creamy like gardenias, they floated through the air like voices in a choir. I imagined they once bloomed in palace gardens, amidst water basins and marble columns. With the roses, the scent transformed, becoming more elegant, almost majestic as if it were wearing a crown.
Then came the darkness. Not threatening, but like a soft cloth draped over the shoulders. Sandalwood, oud, vanilla created a warmth that glowed from within. I sat at the edge of a small alley, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear, and there it was: the sacred smoke of incense, fine, clear, and yet mysterious. It did not hover like a heavy shadow but like a silent prayer rising to the heavens.
It was as if Luban built a bridge between two worlds: the familiar sweetness that speaks to the heart and childhood, and the spiritual depth that lifts us beyond ourselves. In this balance lay its magic. I felt it on my skin hours later, soft as suede, soothing like a warm hand grasped in the dark.
When night had fallen, I was already on my way again, but the scent remained. It accompanied me like a memory that refuses to fade: of markets full of colors, of the smoke that stood like a prayer above the rooftops, and of the feeling of having been part of an ancient, sacred story for a moment.
At first, there was something unexpected: a sweet strawberry, so clear and juicy, as if someone had placed a bowl of fresh fruit under the incense tree. It felt almost playful, a brief flash of light amidst the golden twilight. But hardly had I grasped it when cardamom and pink pepper joined in, a spicy tingle that reminded me that this place knew stories older than any fruit.
The path led me deeper into the market. Between the rolls of carpets and the heavy brocade curtains, a new melody suddenly emerged: the roses. Bulgarian, Turkish, creamy like gardenias, they floated through the air like voices in a choir. I imagined they once bloomed in palace gardens, amidst water basins and marble columns. With the roses, the scent transformed, becoming more elegant, almost majestic as if it were wearing a crown.
Then came the darkness. Not threatening, but like a soft cloth draped over the shoulders. Sandalwood, oud, vanilla created a warmth that glowed from within. I sat at the edge of a small alley, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear, and there it was: the sacred smoke of incense, fine, clear, and yet mysterious. It did not hover like a heavy shadow but like a silent prayer rising to the heavens.
It was as if Luban built a bridge between two worlds: the familiar sweetness that speaks to the heart and childhood, and the spiritual depth that lifts us beyond ourselves. In this balance lay its magic. I felt it on my skin hours later, soft as suede, soothing like a warm hand grasped in the dark.
When night had fallen, I was already on my way again, but the scent remained. It accompanied me like a memory that refuses to fade: of markets full of colors, of the smoke that stood like a prayer above the rooftops, and of the feeling of having been part of an ancient, sacred story for a moment.
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