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Me, Myself & I

Lovers And Dreamers – Dreamers’ Love, Spun In Silk

Moonlight laid over the valley, pressing silver light onto rooftops and riverbanks, stretching toward the silk beneath an open archway. The wind carried voices of dreamers who spoke to the night as though it could answer, those who believed longing could be stitched into fabric and woven through time. Patterns held stories untold, their curves shaped by hands that had traced the edges of memory, knowing each thread carried a history unseen.

MAGNETISM

The earth breathed where iron met fire, dust curled in the wake of a storm, and metal pulled toward unseen forces. Bronze and rust-colored threads curled over the surface of a carpet so rich in warmth it seemed to hum under the weight of an unseen pull. The air thickened where its fabric met the floor, as if movement slowed as if time itself hesitated before stepping away.

A blacksmith wiped his palms on his apron, tracing the lines with hands that had bent steel but never silk. A traveler who had crossed deserts without fear hesitated at the edge, feeling something hold him there longer than he intended. He spent years gathering stones and pressed his ear to the weave, listening to the quiet hum of the earth itself.

DAWN

The morning hush carried the scent of earth still damp with sleep, of fields waiting for the first touch of warmth. Gold and wheat-colored threads stretched into patterns that did not rush, that did not pull but held steady, waiting. The carpet lay in the quiet of an open courtyard as if the first breath of day had settled into its weave before reaching the sky.

Rubbing his fingers over the silk, a fisherman felt the mass of a flood yet to rise. A poet, too tired to write, laid his head against the fabric, searching for the morning color in the space between the knots. A baker, dusted with flour, watched the light settle over the surface, wondering if warmth could be woven the way dough rose under careful hands.

ALLURE

Midnight slipped between stone and shadow, curling into spaces where lantern light flickered but never held. Blue and ivory designs whispered through the silk, twisting in patterns that were too complex to follow and deliberate to ignore. The carpet rested in the quiet of a dimly lit corridor, where echoes lingered longer than footsteps, and even silence carried weight.

A musician let his fingers drift over the weave, wondering if sound could be stitched into the fabric the way notes filled an empty room. A watchmaker studied the symmetry, tracing curves with hands used to gears but never silk. A storyteller sat at its edge, knowing some patterns spoke in ways no ink could capture, no voice could repeat.

NOSTALGIA

The night pressed itself into the weave, heavy with the color of longing, with the hush of voices lost in time. Dark patterns twisted into themselves, holding shadows within their folds, stretching toward edges worn by the weight of memory. The rug did not demand attention. It waited, patient as forgotten melodies; certain someone would return to trace its lines, to listen for echoes that had never left.

A sculptor ran his hands over the surface, feeling shapes no chisel could carve. A sailor, feet steady on solid ground for the first time in years, pressed his palm against the weave, remembering waves that had rocked him to sleep. A girl who had never seen the ocean sat in its center, believing the dark blue carried stories of places she had yet to know.

TRADITIONAL COLLECTION

Arabesque, Terminus, Emblem, Surveyor, Folklore, and Promenade collections house the grandeur of centennial artistry. Brace yourself. Every collection will carry you on a traditional odyssey. 

An album of artisan hands, a collection of millions of knots

CONTEMPORARY COLLECTION

Art is constantly transforming. Seasons, Dermis, Lovers And Dreamers, Cosmic Order, and Holding Court collections all mirror that. The present moves, but silk holds onto it, preserving light before it slips away.