Camey5000

My Amber No. 130
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Petals swing
In meadows, forest and field
You butterflies sing
From tender amber world.
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The fragrance is barely felt
Surrounds with light glow
Vanilla' and mandarin
You hardly believe in its being.
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Then the hours linger
Is often a woe to thee
Then your little nose flickers
A magical happening.
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7.0
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Les Exceptions - Ambre Redoutable - Mugler


My Amber No. 56

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Stranded. Cast upon the sandy shore.
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Old timbers I follow into a dry savannah. Along the towpath of curiosity. Towards a wide hollow. A field of amber. Dark under a hot sun. Steps, on to a little mud. What is it that surrounds me? Brown mud. Derb wood. Ungreen, maybe like dried Welwitschia, (but who knows the smell of dried Welwitschia?). So blossoms they are not. Tart. Vinegar in molecules. And wood and wood again, like driftwood, carried ashore.
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Hoping for rescue.
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A shady spot brings me earthy peace. Above, a light breeze, light as forgotten almonds. It does not satisfy my hunger. Not marzipan. No, translucent labdanum. A hint of cistus. Maybe like dried gentian root, (but who knows the scent of dried gentian root?). And a hint of rose. Rose of nowhere. And amber like dust. Thick dust. Balsamic. No smoke and no resin. And no sweet.
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Everything hangs in the brown. Occupying dust. Heavy-duty powder. Blocked nose. Alp in throat and breathing. Barely delicate rose on the horizon. Mirage.
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Long, monotonous dying. Oh, could I die for this. No! Yes! - 9.0 - A dying for lovers. .
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My demise.
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7.0

**

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Aubusson
Private Collection - Liquid Amber
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.@!*
American amber tree. Liquidambar styraciflua.
And the wood is used, after oak, in the Appalachian region of the United States, as the second most important furniture wood.


My Amber No. 116
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This is the tree talking.

He looks at us, as if with big, autumnal eyes. Amber scent. Powerful. You almost think of florals. And yikes, a tiny bit spicy. With pink pepper. And quick like praline. Hurried like a little ginger and fresh like grapefruit. With a light, green rain. With a distinct, barely sweet longevity. Peppery grapefruit praline for foodies and other sippers.
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Then comes the dust. Now that's where you can't let go. You grab the dust, for here the cinnamon dusts, here the nutmeg gives a little depth, and then you lay down. Wrapped in your patchouli blanket under clay powder skies. With hours in the amber delight. Inexpensive in medium brown, on a spare, translucent green, earthy base.
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Hours. To the point of being tiring.
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7.0
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Omnia Profumi - Ambra
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My Amber No. 50
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The scent of the conquerors.

It's a scent that drives you out of hiding. From every dungeon. The prisoner's chorus comes to mind. A breakout and an urge to storm the white house. Or the Bastille.
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A demanding boom. Cannonball. With animalism. Animalik from dark fruit. From mash, rose mash and green bark. Amber on the barrel. Then a throw of round, subtle orange. Small threatening notes of green bergamot. Cinnamon incense of the Christian kind. Now in the middle of the action. Festive mood.
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Geranium to ingratiate and from the dark wood the stability and inertia. Without smoke, but sandy powdered over. Not much of an argument anymore. Frankincense supports the patchouli base of thriving. Amber crowns with vanilla the diplomats' smoothness.
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And how that pleases. You want to go up, to the fragrance world of conquerors. To make dreams come true. Own dreams. Not letting go. Want to have. Omnia Profumi - Ambra. A portal fragrance. 9.0
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The amber to power.
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Akkad the Hawk .
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Uncapped. From the peg, from the distant realm. From the realm of the dazzling peacock throne and dark, evil cassocks, the falcon swoops over the wet land, over Eden, Paradise, with primordial-animalism poignant. From Mesopotamia drastic to the Levant.
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Assaults me, shows me claws and talons, and with sharp beak whistling rips notes, almost medicinal, into the air and under my skin. Over finely cut bergamot and tangerine into my feathers. A scent like a plunge onto prey, a nip in the neck and a lasting mark.
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With the chamsin my hawk rises. Feathered with elemi and styrax. Up over dusty cardamom, to airy, shimmering heights. Over Syrian strains, powdery and resinous into the incense skies of the mighty, the warriors, the merchants, and the downtrodden peoples. Draws high circles in the clouds and settles on the heights of Lebanon, on wood, on soft needles of great firs, on clary sage, on the cinnamon in the meadows of blood, on flowery vanilla and mysterious, reconciling labdanum.
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He finds his long rest on the incense roads, from Yemen to Medina, from Petra to sunken Ebla. Even to long-forgotten Haran. Where Abraham searched. My falcon brings the frankincense over the land.
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Gracious incense. Divine incense. Peace of the Levant.
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Akkad the dove.