Top Notes 
Birch
Clove
Frankincense
Pine
Violet
Heart Notes 
Castoreum
Muhuhu
Birch tar
Atlas cedar
Iris
Base Notes 
Indonesian oud
Bourbon vetiver
Floyd
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Floyd
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52
Everything Shines in the Beyond of the Birches
Off the beaten paths that lead from this village, a dark mist swirls, veiling the horizon like a wondrous wall of ash. Within it lie the dark mountains of birches, they say. Beyond them then is the beyond.
I take nothing with me on my way into the fog, into the black clouds at the foot of the hills. There lies a sea of birch tar, a wooden boat, a skiff, I row through balsamic incense and reddish pearls of pistachio. The beavers cast silver streaks on the swirling wall of clouds, a few drops of clove drizzle down, two blossoms dance in the wind. 'Muhuhu!' whisper the bushes of wood and earth from the mist, and then the ethereal birch trunks appear, first as shadows, powerful and white. There stands a gnarled Indonesian, barely ankle-deep in the tar, handing me dark coffee, rather crushed beans.
Then cohorts of various kinds of bright green grasses sprout between the birches, smelling damp-earthy, sharp and ethereal, others warm and khus-bright, fresh and sylph-like. Hugo Lambert sneaks mischievously over the meadows behind the forests, collecting bourbon for Oryza Legrand. From here, the mountains are nothing but clouds, growing like blossoms over the trees, from their smoke, their blood, their ash, and the earth in the rain. I am in the beyond of the birches. Everything is illuminated. The red smoke, the shimmering tar, the dark glowing woods, the glowing grasses. Like in a trance. The whole space. Endless. Timeless. Like a dream.
(With great thanks to Bloodxclat)
I take nothing with me on my way into the fog, into the black clouds at the foot of the hills. There lies a sea of birch tar, a wooden boat, a skiff, I row through balsamic incense and reddish pearls of pistachio. The beavers cast silver streaks on the swirling wall of clouds, a few drops of clove drizzle down, two blossoms dance in the wind. 'Muhuhu!' whisper the bushes of wood and earth from the mist, and then the ethereal birch trunks appear, first as shadows, powerful and white. There stands a gnarled Indonesian, barely ankle-deep in the tar, handing me dark coffee, rather crushed beans.
Then cohorts of various kinds of bright green grasses sprout between the birches, smelling damp-earthy, sharp and ethereal, others warm and khus-bright, fresh and sylph-like. Hugo Lambert sneaks mischievously over the meadows behind the forests, collecting bourbon for Oryza Legrand. From here, the mountains are nothing but clouds, growing like blossoms over the trees, from their smoke, their blood, their ash, and the earth in the rain. I am in the beyond of the birches. Everything is illuminated. The red smoke, the shimmering tar, the dark glowing woods, the glowing grasses. Like in a trance. The whole space. Endless. Timeless. Like a dream.
(With great thanks to Bloodxclat)
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