‘The most serene air of foreign villages
And the sweet breeze perfumed by the orange trees.
Have you not been enchanted by its sweetness?’
(Ronsard)

Balsamic breaths, gusts of smells or tingling caresses, gladdened by the world, the turbulent winds, mute or roaring, have neither lands nor dwelling-place.

Winds with a taste of rye, of citrus fruits and wheat, north-easterlies and westerlies that they are the soul of the grasses, hot winds with soft warmths, simooms laden with perfumes of Arabia, of Persia and the Sahara, siroccos of thirst, harmatans saturated with gum Arabic, harsh tramontanas or mistrals that drive men mad, great breaths of the high sea wet with salty freshness, the winds scent the entire world of things.