PASSION SYMPHONY | Symphonie-Passion speaks to all times because is inherently linked to a journey, to a staircase of stones of a bell tower that climbs circular toward an endless gallery of feelings, that poetically engrave in the wood the name of the one who plays humble, but master that moves, surprising and wondering,
in which every man should find himself to be aware of what he really is.
The engine starts, eager to drop the sound infused of dusty woods and iron among the mathematical archways of the marble, among the ears waiting for that unpredictable harmony that unleash the illusion.
This is the world of music: to get carried away by the skin, by the smile and by suffering, black tears of the infinite. As a wood of cedar moves the bank of the fund, majestic and powerful, prickly as its leaves, musically embodies embraced to the musk and the sandalwood. Passing the heart of Vetyver, together involved with the Cachemeran, in a combination of ancient symbolic and modern technology.
Opens and concludes the Gregorian journey of the Passion, the olfactory concert of Lemon and Peony, the union among truth and sweetness, between the rupture and the chromatic caress.
Symponie-Passion, the damp cement of the thought, deep echo among the archways that wrap, insatiable balm that screeches and welcomes The sonorous matter leavens, vision of the artefact that reassumes the depth of a handicraft melodic revolution, with the perfumed mantle of a step, gentle, aware of the revolution and illusion, noble anarchy of the rule, elegant neglect that elevate and suffers that in the reticulum of the musical idea it drug us in an inhuman dimension where the art is incessant, it is irreducible to the relative. The sound of the Ocean engraves in the perfume a signature, as a chisel in the wood of a harmonic box, where the magmatic equilibriums create streets to escape from what it is weak. And the magic of “no more looking for our own thought” takes over, forgetting the memory, remaining in the enigmatic threshold of the annulment of Ourselves without calling the Beauty,
because it is the Beauty itself to call us. The enchantment found again is perfumed now: improvisation of everything as an inner impulse that calls, in the folly that cries, in tears that touches, in the shade of instinct and desires behind the puissant wind dust of desire____