AIRS Botanical Incense are made by the world’s most experienced incenses artisans.
The sticks are not dipped in dangerous chemicals or cheap oils. Instead, they are created in small batches and molded onto the punk and the fragrance is naturally embedded in the base.
If a stick gives off a plume of black smoke after it’s first lit, you have an inferior “firecracker punk”. AIRS incense does not do this.
AIRS Botanical Incense is much more potent than standard incense. You can leave the sticks out, unlit, to freshen the air. After a few days, ignite them to extract another aromatic dimension from them.
We fumbled in the dark tent to find the wild berries we had gathered that morning. Our fingers danced in the cool tin cup, then jumped anxiously to our lips, providing a dewy, delectable surprise. Soon we could not tell whose fingers were whose, nor whose mouth.
I could see clearly now, galloping through the blustery snow, with father high over Kivka, her nostrils steaming in the dusk, and my uncle hanging on for dear life. Five months gone, and an armful of gifts!
The field was dressed in banners and flowers and gleaming armor. We could not hear our own thoughts. A thousand eyes landed on us. All grew silent. We strode out, fingers clenched, daring fate to stand against us.
I returned to the terrace often to watch my favorite star, centered over the village, whose brilliance dominated the night sky. Finally,
I would fall asleep, dreaming of the life I would have if only people could be stars.
We were much too shy for daylight; our embraces were stolen from sleep — long tender caresses which extended themselves like children playing a game which the waking world could not understand.
We came here to behold the moon and stars, We hosted the ceremonies of the wise and faithful. Our arms no longer lock together. Our feet are covered with grass. But we are patient. We are the sentries of the night.
At the summit a light rain began to fall. We stretched our mouths. The water poured like nectar, dancing on our palates and trickling down our throats until we cold only speak in gasps and whispers.
A jet-black evening; thousands of dancers thronging the streets of Rio de Janeiro, their colors flaring and diving; echoes of drums, of wind and strings, of song and chant rolling into the air — brooding, graceful, like a great night bird.
In the days of the Great Spice Trade, a thousand ships journeyed East in quest of rare essentials, returning with a cargo so redolent that it could be savored long before their sails broke the horizon.
For thousands of years they lay there, outstretched, as sultry as the floral jungles of their heartlands, and rimmed with sand so golden that they shone day and night, a beacon to secret memories.
