They call it Homa, a name that whispers of freedom and grace. Its surface tells a story—a grey canvas, quiet as dawn, cradling bold black calligraphy that moves like the echo of ancient voices. Scattered bursts of red shimmer like sparks from a fire, each one a pulse of life, a memory held.
At its heart rests a glowing ember, a symbol of love, a flame that refuses to fade. Homa is not merely woven; it is breathed into existence—a tale of heritage and humanity, where threads become poetry, and silence finds its voice.
