Parfmarie
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Parfmarie 14 days ago
Translated · Show original
The Old Lady - Ode to a Past Elegance
First of all: I do not wish to offend anyone with my review. This is my personal impression, not a judgment against those who enjoy wearing the fragrance. The scent may be a treasure chest for many - for me, it was too much of a good thing.
It is a tribute to mature femininity, to powder puffs, silence, wisdom, and the shine of days gone by. It is a fragrance with character - however, it is uncompromising, old-fashioned, complex.
For me personally, too much. Too loud, too floral, too soapy. A perfume that does not resonate with me, but rather overwhelms me. Yet I acknowledge its greatness - just as one might give an old lady the seat by the window, even if one would like to look outside to observe the happenings.
The old lady sits there, amidst the masses. The people around her are stressed. On their way to work, meeting friends… no one is really present.
The subway car has seen better days, but she, she still sparkles. Her hands are slender, her knuckles slightly bent from life - but her aura is strong, composed, dignified.
Flowers circle around her like memories: Ylang-Ylang, gardenia, rose - in full bloom, not shy, but lush.
Bergamot tries to freshen it all up, almost like the slightly lemony scent of the pure soap she begins with every morning. Cleanliness is a must.
Her perfume lingers, even when she leaves the train.
It is not a fleeting whisper - it is a statement. A sign that she is still there. Completely.
And so she will go - in her powdery coat of flowers, wood, and wisdom - yet her scent remains, like a final glance back: majestic, opulent, and unforgettable.
It is a tribute to mature femininity, to powder puffs, silence, wisdom, and the shine of days gone by. It is a fragrance with character - however, it is uncompromising, old-fashioned, complex.
For me personally, too much. Too loud, too floral, too soapy. A perfume that does not resonate with me, but rather overwhelms me. Yet I acknowledge its greatness - just as one might give an old lady the seat by the window, even if one would like to look outside to observe the happenings.
The old lady sits there, amidst the masses. The people around her are stressed. On their way to work, meeting friends… no one is really present.
The subway car has seen better days, but she, she still sparkles. Her hands are slender, her knuckles slightly bent from life - but her aura is strong, composed, dignified.
Flowers circle around her like memories: Ylang-Ylang, gardenia, rose - in full bloom, not shy, but lush.
Bergamot tries to freshen it all up, almost like the slightly lemony scent of the pure soap she begins with every morning. Cleanliness is a must.
Her perfume lingers, even when she leaves the train.
It is not a fleeting whisper - it is a statement. A sign that she is still there. Completely.
And so she will go - in her powdery coat of flowers, wood, and wisdom - yet her scent remains, like a final glance back: majestic, opulent, and unforgettable.
Parfmarie 15 days ago
Translated · Show original
Under Mirabelle Trees
When the sunbeams glide over the meadow and the air smells of ripe fruits, then her day begins:
She has just woken up, but already wears a smile on her face.
Quickly to Gabriel. Her horse is as white as cream, with eyes that understand every story. She rides without bridle and saddle; she flies.
Through the blooming gardens of Paris, where the mirabelle trees cast shadows and release their lovely scent. The ground is covered with fallen fruit, and the smell leaves a sweet film on the tongue. Here, her little world begins to dance.
She tells him everything, her Gabriel. Every secret she wouldn’t trust anyone else with, she whispers in his ear. His mane flows like silk, bergamot tickles her nose, and as they trot through the clearings, iris and jasmine mingle in the air - like thoughts that are allowed to unfold. And again and again: Mirabelle. Ripe, warm, a little sticky on the fingers - that’s what summer tastes like when you love it.
Later, she loves to lie on his back when he is lying in the grass, and strokes his coat. It is soft. Suede and cedar gently emerge.
She scents on her dress and smiles.
“You are my summer,” she says. Gabriel snorts softly.
She has just woken up, but already wears a smile on her face.
Quickly to Gabriel. Her horse is as white as cream, with eyes that understand every story. She rides without bridle and saddle; she flies.
Through the blooming gardens of Paris, where the mirabelle trees cast shadows and release their lovely scent. The ground is covered with fallen fruit, and the smell leaves a sweet film on the tongue. Here, her little world begins to dance.
She tells him everything, her Gabriel. Every secret she wouldn’t trust anyone else with, she whispers in his ear. His mane flows like silk, bergamot tickles her nose, and as they trot through the clearings, iris and jasmine mingle in the air - like thoughts that are allowed to unfold. And again and again: Mirabelle. Ripe, warm, a little sticky on the fingers - that’s what summer tastes like when you love it.
Later, she loves to lie on his back when he is lying in the grass, and strokes his coat. It is soft. Suede and cedar gently emerge.
She scents on her dress and smiles.
“You are my summer,” she says. Gabriel snorts softly.
Translated · Show original
Walpurgis Ash
He stood under the old gallows tree, hidden in the shadow, where once the thieves hung. The crowd screamed. They demanded his death.
As the flames greedily devoured the wood, he felt a warm tear cool his cheek.
And she? She stood like a queen in the storm - her hair loose, her gaze noble. She had made her peace and knew that only one could still judge her.
The smoke swallowed her. What remained was her scent, reminiscent of the pain of love.
A spicy hint, as if someone had sprinkled saffron on hot skin.
The clove pierced the air, like the moment it struck his heart when he knew he was losing her.
Roses - not like in the garden, but dipped in blood.
And above all: this deep shadow of smoky wenge wood and old vanilla, bittersweet like a last "I love you".
The scent was her armor.
When everything was still and the crowd had long moved on, he remained behind.
The square was empty. The pyres burned out. Yet her scent -
her scent was still there. And he carried it with him, like a promise.
As the flames greedily devoured the wood, he felt a warm tear cool his cheek.
And she? She stood like a queen in the storm - her hair loose, her gaze noble. She had made her peace and knew that only one could still judge her.
The smoke swallowed her. What remained was her scent, reminiscent of the pain of love.
A spicy hint, as if someone had sprinkled saffron on hot skin.
The clove pierced the air, like the moment it struck his heart when he knew he was losing her.
Roses - not like in the garden, but dipped in blood.
And above all: this deep shadow of smoky wenge wood and old vanilla, bittersweet like a last "I love you".
The scent was her armor.
When everything was still and the crowd had long moved on, he remained behind.
The square was empty. The pyres burned out. Yet her scent -
her scent was still there. And he carried it with him, like a promise.
Translated · Show original
The Journey is the Destination
The train is ready. A black behemoth of gleaming steel and gilded ornaments, framed by fog and anticipation. Steam hangs in the air at the platform. As 
Quandoley 805 slowly begins to move, it feels as if it has never truly stood still.
“QUANDOLEY 805” - engraved in brass, hidden under patina, sounds like a secret word understood only by the initiated.
Inside: Dark green and golden velvet. Highly polished and oiled mahogany. Noble marble.
The air is heavy, a hint of tobacco, remnants of sweet spirits - as if soaked in stories. In the dining car, warm light glows from alabaster lamps, gold-framed mirrors cast flickering reflections on crystal decanters. The seats are dark brown and faintly smell of old leather.
A fine veil of the finest delicacies with olive oil and red pepper also hangs in the air, like the perfume of a lady who never reveals her name. It is not an oil of everyday life, but a golden elixir that seems to have seeped into the cracks of ancient wood paneling. When applied, it gently shimmers on the skin.
Then, labdanum joins in - awake and resistant, like a burning note in the lover's ashtray.
Ylang-ylang slowly unfolds, velvety, floral, almost intoxicatingly beautiful. In the lounge car, amidst the smoky glasses of cognac, a hint of styrax and incense floats - like the hissing of brakes at an unscheduled stop.
Then: Chimes. It is midnight. Darkness engulfs the train. The scent descends - sweet, resinous, a whisper of vanilla and benzoin that drapes itself like a silky blanket over the shoulders. Oud lurks in the background, leaving a gentle reminder of the day's experiences. People, conversations, life.
This train has no destination, for the journey is its destination. The journey itself, moments, promises, wanderings, memories.
A state, framed in velvet and resin, in light and shadow, in spice and sweetness - 805 is a formula, a spell, a melody on tracks.
Quandoley 805 slowly begins to move, it feels as if it has never truly stood still.“QUANDOLEY 805” - engraved in brass, hidden under patina, sounds like a secret word understood only by the initiated.
Inside: Dark green and golden velvet. Highly polished and oiled mahogany. Noble marble.
The air is heavy, a hint of tobacco, remnants of sweet spirits - as if soaked in stories. In the dining car, warm light glows from alabaster lamps, gold-framed mirrors cast flickering reflections on crystal decanters. The seats are dark brown and faintly smell of old leather.
A fine veil of the finest delicacies with olive oil and red pepper also hangs in the air, like the perfume of a lady who never reveals her name. It is not an oil of everyday life, but a golden elixir that seems to have seeped into the cracks of ancient wood paneling. When applied, it gently shimmers on the skin.
Then, labdanum joins in - awake and resistant, like a burning note in the lover's ashtray.
Ylang-ylang slowly unfolds, velvety, floral, almost intoxicatingly beautiful. In the lounge car, amidst the smoky glasses of cognac, a hint of styrax and incense floats - like the hissing of brakes at an unscheduled stop.
Then: Chimes. It is midnight. Darkness engulfs the train. The scent descends - sweet, resinous, a whisper of vanilla and benzoin that drapes itself like a silky blanket over the shoulders. Oud lurks in the background, leaving a gentle reminder of the day's experiences. People, conversations, life.
This train has no destination, for the journey is its destination. The journey itself, moments, promises, wanderings, memories.
A state, framed in velvet and resin, in light and shadow, in spice and sweetness - 805 is a formula, a spell, a melody on tracks.
Translated · Show original
The Black Caravan
Kashnoir is not a mirage. It stands for oriental presence and timelessness.
A scent like a mysterious caravan journey - rich in spice, warmth, and intimacy. Oriental, spicy, sweet, but with dark depth and timeless dignity. For fragrance dreamers who do not consider patchouli old-fashioned and lavender too loud. A small masterpiece that starts off a bit intrusive and then gradually fades away - like a caravan that suddenly appears behind a dune and then moves on. Slowly, gently, over the sand, in the still heat, until it disappears in the distance.
Where
N°5 Parfum once reflected the highlights of Parisian salons - aldehydic, bright, like the silk lining of a haute couture gown - there is "Kashnoir | Laboratorio Olfattivo," the night scent of the nomad. It too speaks of elegance, yet its language is different - as if from a distant world: darker, denser, more mysterious. Where No. 5 shines, Kashnoir glimmers. Both weave floral motifs with a touch of unattainability, yet Kashnoir does not long for admiration. It rests. It beckons. It warms.
A scent like a mysterious caravan journey - rich in spice, warmth, and intimacy. Oriental, spicy, sweet, but with dark depth and timeless dignity. For fragrance dreamers who do not consider patchouli old-fashioned and lavender too loud. A small masterpiece that starts off a bit intrusive and then gradually fades away - like a caravan that suddenly appears behind a dune and then moves on. Slowly, gently, over the sand, in the still heat, until it disappears in the distance.
Where
N°5 Parfum once reflected the highlights of Parisian salons - aldehydic, bright, like the silk lining of a haute couture gown - there is "Kashnoir | Laboratorio Olfattivo," the night scent of the nomad. It too speaks of elegance, yet its language is different - as if from a distant world: darker, denser, more mysterious. Where No. 5 shines, Kashnoir glimmers. Both weave floral motifs with a touch of unattainability, yet Kashnoir does not long for admiration. It rests. It beckons. It warms.
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