Ora dopo Ora

Today, machines and atomic clocks govern our every moment with ruthless precision. But once, time was measured differently. It was a ritual, almost a prayer. High among the jade-tinted peaks of the Chung-nan mountains, under pines where white cranes took flight, the guardians of time shaped the hours with their own hands. On discs of fragrant sandalwood or gleaming bronze, they spread snow-pure ash. With slow, deliberate gestures, they imprinted celestial patterns using intricate metal stamps — delicate spirals, sacred geometry. The grooves were filled with incense powder, ready to smoulder in an invisible dance of time. At special points, tiny beads of resin or rare artemisia released sudden perfumes — like whispered blessings carried on the air, marking the invisible rhythm of the day. More than simple censers, these were intricate instruments that combined ancient herbal knowledge, metalworking mastery, and aesthetic sensitivity to transform the burning of precious essences into a magical perception of time.
And perhaps, even today, there is no truer way to measure time than by surrendering to a thread of perfumed smoke, losing ourselves in the sacred luxury of the moment.