Since 1875

The smell of the perfume is dancing
in the air; proudly, tenderly.
The wet sky washes the stormy brain,
enduring the sweet sorrows; bare and boundless.
Today, the world is at last hers.

She admires the raindrops.
Watching them hitting one by one,
melting down the dirty snow
just like the summer heat dissolving
a blueberry sorbet scoop in the antique land.

The steamy window is nothing less
than an old treasure map, guiding her to
the moment of truth; to nostalgia.
Breaking the steam, she writes down
her thoughts: "I shall move yet again."