Any handkerchief or scarf may be a silk flower.

It Is an attractive and innovative way to present a piece of artwork in silk to someone important to you.

Give a flower, a scarf and if you want, also a poem.

It can Also be framed or enjoyed as a fashion complement.

The Silk flower is a creation of 2008. Born from a dream I had a night of inspiration: a silk scarf wrapped in a flower shape.

The first idea was growing and I later introduced the written poems by hand.

In the year 2009, I managed the Community patent, currently in force, and the registration of design in the Society of authors.

There are many occasions to give and to be original with what We give. In Catalonia We have the Sant Jordi Day, a brilliant occasion to give the Rose and the book in a single gesture. We can Also give a silk flower the day of the mother, for a birthday, by gratitude or simply because you want to surprise a person.





Over the years, the clients themselves have been growing the initial idea of the silk flower.

Many of you have come up with an idea or a personal writing, an own poem or the text of an author. And you’ve made it possible for many of these flowers to come to the hand of someone important.

Please Ask and you will be granted. We Fulfill your desire!

You can choose one of our authors or you can send your poem.

I Have the copyrights of three Catalan poets: Miquel Martí i Pol, Valerià Pujol and Vicenç Llorca. You can read the poems written in each author’s scarf and choose.

We Have poetic silk flowers in six colours: black, grey, burdeus, lilac, mauve and red. It’s a silk-scarf pongé N º 8 of 55x55cm

This Silk Flower has been a gift to many political and cultural personalities of our country

Miquel Martí i Pol (Roda de Ter,1929-Vic,2003) was a Catalan poet, author and translator, recognized as one of the most popular of the TWENTIETH century. His extensive work forms part of our cultural and literary heritage. From his poems in The Capfoguer, by Dear Marta, the collaboration was born in 2008 and his widow Montserrat Sans gave me the copyright to write his poetry on silk, a poetic flower that speaks of the love of life

“Much I have loved and much love yet. I’m glad and until a little surprised of so much love that all clarifies it. Much I have loved and I will love much more without any law of Mirage or obstacles that would spare me the pleasure fund that many people will say incomprehensible. I’m glad: much I’ve loved and a lot I have to love. I Want everyone to know it. From the clear height of this body that makes me of screwdriver or response when the desire demands plenitude, from the intensity of a glance or from the foam of a single kiss, I proclaim my love, the Legitimo.

Discretely, but with that strength that is not known from where it comes from, I want to give that that I say, the elementary and clear things that touch me: feelings, desires, some things, the do and undo simple every day. I Can affirm that I am happy in doing so, intensely happy many times. I Want to tell that I say and enough. Later on, I will say other things.

Debades rained somewhere remote. Everything is gentle, and those moments that I spend configuring memories that I have not lived are a few moments of extreme intimacy, densely full of everything I want, unlimited and clear moments of life. I have No other. Also, they scream the Swifts of the window and slowly fills the pitcher of the afternoon.

The Shadow of the sea has made birds silent. Now The cool sound of the notted axes feels very far. Agito the goblet and throw the dice. Luck is a girl that looks at me always from the bottom of time and has clear eyes and malicious river.

No gestrer gesture. Everything is measured and brief. The Order Forgets Extreme solitude and converts the game into prophecy. No gesture, and the slow flow of words that do not transmutes this silence. At the same times, a curtain falls on everything, and everything becomes sterile. It is Not silence and is more than silence.

Valerià Pujol i Bosch (Premià de Dalt,1952-1992) was a Catalan poet and writer. He Worked in secondary education and the Institute of his people leads his name today. Very appreciated and loved, especially in the Maresme. Of his poems The Númida Network is the collaboration with the royalties provided to me by his mother Montserrat Bosch and his family in 2009 in order to write his poems on silk.

Time is all a wish that is decanted suddenly. As a boat taken at the risk of the wave. This Windmill with which it poues the ten swindling calm and space trains promise you battles. All the moment is the price that pays for the enjoyment perfet. Only the moment is the sum that takes you to the encounter of the bodies. You realise then that time and desire are the gold you are playing suddenly and you will be racked between oars and floods and foam.

It is slow, a kindergarten of hours on the compact hour that entrusts the most secret enjoyment to the ardent core of the naked matter. Prodigy and possession; High wall where soldiers of desire make truva and precipitate the pride of the gaze made of relentless sign and precipice. It’s All a time of dense architecture: one hour is only a shipwrecked privilege to attain the profound consistency and the lignified heart. It Becomes enclosure on the hand above the tree in beautiful light trade and weight possession. Just that: in fusion or transparency.

All power and doubt no limit break the being and being. The prophecy that gives time so shy answer reaches the point and requires you the day. You Get your skin, a quirky hero, or be or have crumble on the edges of the inward set of Templari in the fire in the city: Wind in the outskirts. It all bears a risk and the body marks the route. All the reefs outline your muscles with a sudden patch. The minute transmuted in the solid wall the smallest doubts. Neither Polifem nor saves you to the grotto or the more dense group does not save you from the group.

Tomb in combat the necessary life for the high shelter of the cloisters. The snow Veil projected cold and fighting. The mild architecture maintains a balance of cells and walls. All Life Estuca desires underground.

It Blooms in the shady garden and there is a tempera desire to touch the body’s footprint, except in the same day. Sura Silent The harbinger of the doubt and in every time is sighted the rune of debris.

Vicenç Llorca (Barcelona, 1965) holds a Degree in Catalan philology from the Autonomous University of Barcelona. He Is a renowned Catalan poet and writer who has an extensive published and awarded work. Deeply involved in the world of culture and teaching, it is active and very active in the poetic and literary creation. On 30 October 2015, he defended his doctoral thesis on a literary and essayistic basis and was appointed Doctor.

From his poems in The last North, where he speaks of his experience of adoption, was born the flower of poetic silk with his poem, a collaboration with author’s rights that was born in 2009 and that allows us to make joint presentations and enjoy the readings of his poems .

North to the east. The North was the Orient of a pearl. The signs confided the wonders to the rivers of the steppes. A pearl, the east of my north. The North was his own life, hidden behind the love that invented the stars in the light of the instant of our eyes. Hidden, own life my north. The last North is a child gifted by the winter of the wait, by the snow that will cover the fields and gives them dream and fruit. Child given, my last north.

Return to silence. The Silence of the rain is the gift that the time grants to the word of the men. It Converts the falling water in its accent, and the freshness that exhale the earth, in the spelling of the landscape. So we learn to talk to the sky that you have believed.

Between seas. With calm, the eyes go down the sea to the confins of the coast where you repose. I Grab the air with music hands, and I send you all the love that I can be for life to root in you and cause me right now a smile. There is No night when we think of the pain that we can put on the stars. And put in others the memory that comes to us from the body of joy.

Blue Hands waiting. I’Ve decided to be like water and travel under air forms driven by wind language. And then, give the Earth the best of myself: a dream anchored in the sea. Because My life is waiting, and everything is expected in the blue hands of the water.

Shajti. In an instant, life has the light of the universe, the music of turns that we do not see the stars. It Is the chance that, patient, we choose the place and the face where Love is born, where we are the love of an angel abandoned for him, son who comes from the heart of the sky in which we burnt, without rest, as in a psalm lived. You have risen up: smile full of illusion, and already all illusions. So Many years later, you will be presented at last, simply, as the sense of time. You Are you, just that: Are you who you resurrect miracles in the instant.

Carved Life. We can Not invent the fate, but do it till it encompass the form of a life and the content of a time. Write the days that have taken you desire and surrender to love, as the sea becomes wave to know the land and reflux of a return.

Confidence of the soul. I cling to life. Like a blue line on the horizon, fixed the sea level in the eyes, give relief to the wind so that the boats sense effortlessly to port destination. Void of time, dis of an eternity flying through love. You come from the soul to create me the soul of life where I cling.

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