Hawf

Hawf holds dense forests of ancient frankincense trees — trees whose tales span thousands of years, from whose bark flows white gold, a perfume filling the space and carrying the memories of the incense caravans that crossed this land since the dawn of history.

In the early morning the mist slips in like a thin ghost, wrapping the mountains in a robe of grey silk, dancing lightly among the trees, touching the leaves and then vanishing, leaving behind dew sparkling like pearls on the leaf tips. A mist that seems to be the earth’s own breath, filling your lungs with indescribable calm at dawn.

Flocks of migratory birds fly over the forests, forming moving paintings in the sky, lines swaying in marvellous harmony, their wings waving to all who come, their song a symphony announcing eternal spring in this blessed spot.

In the evening, when the sun disappears behind the mountains, the horizon glows with golden honey, turning to shades of purple and deep red, before night wraps the region in a blanket of star-studded darkness — stars shining so densely you think you could touch them if you reached out your hand.