In the year of twenty-eleven, when wonder led the way,

Parisa journeyed eastward, where sun and shadow play.

Through India’s winding rhythm, where colour softly sings,

She met a gypsy and her son, both skilled in sacred things.

They showed her how to tie with care, to loop and knot and weave,

A quiet craft of rhythm fine, with stories up its sleeve.

Macramé became her thread, her anchor and her art—

A way to bring what’s made by hand a little closer to the heart.

From hands and dreams, a vision bloomed—of pieces bold and true,

To dress the self in glints of light, in something deep as you.

Now crafted forms in brass and thread, with feathers, pods, and charms—

Adornments gathered from the wild, and shaped by patient palms.

When you wear a Dryad piece, the world might look the same—

But something soft will stir in you, and gently change the name.

Of how you move, of how you feel, of how your story goes—

All from a piece, just lightly worn, so your inner shimmer shows.