Gethsemane: A garden at the foot of an olive mountain, where Jesus spent his last night.
At first, this garden strongly reminds me of a local clinic. Sterile latex gloves, disinfection, metallic tools. However, no patient-friendly routine sets in here: A generous amount of balsam-cultivated peppercorns is ground and then transformed into iron ash with the help of a service.
Most likely, no beaver meeting took place today. They seemed to be uninvited! Rather, there was an extraordinarily large delivery of salt-dried herbs that drove away any sweetness, thus allowing for effortless storage in the specially welded metal cabinet.
But the longer I let this cloud diffuse on my skin, the more I realized that I was greeting the past future here. Take Me to Church and surely, the perfumer had worn the same lab gloves here. Spice, incense, balm, iron herb ... just much gentler! and indeed more beautiful!
With the profound breaths of the receding time, the origin becomes gentler, yet always more reminiscent. Nevertheless, this pyrogenic energy reveals itself without any reverence.
O fly away eternal liturgy: In earthly withdrawal' relentlessly / Iron reminiscence worthy of blessing.
Bottle: terrible.
Your way of describing it: fabulous.