In the heart of the back alleys of a mountainous city, where the breeze always smells of rose water and fresh wool, skilled hands have woven for years, but not just knots but dreams.
It is said that since the heart became passionate, plans took on a different color. There was no more talk of repetitive flowers. Birds spread their wings, branches danced, and vines reached the sky.
The carpet in front of you is the result of that restlessness; a romantic passion that was woven into the warp and woof without the need for words. They named it: Passion of Love.
Its azure earth is the sky of nights in which a sigh was heaved in the heart; the twists are the paths along which the heart went and returned; the birds are the songs that arose silently from the heart and hands.
They say that when the last knot was tied, a tear fell to the ground; Not from sadness, but from lightness. Because what had to be said had been woven.
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