Étaín Ireland | Moín (Turf) | Wax Melt
In a humble cottage, nestled by the moor,
A scented candle flickers, casting a warm glow,
Móin, the essence of Irish turf, it bears,
A fragrant tribute to the land's ancient affairs.
With a gentle strike of a match, the flame ignites,
Unveiling memories of hearths and cozy nights,
The scent of Móin wafts through the air,
Recalling tales of old, with a tender flair.
A whiff of smoky peat, rising from the bog,
Whispers of mossy earth, dampened by the fog,
Móin captures the essence of Ireland's embrace,
Enchanting hearts with its nostalgic grace.
As the candle burns, its aroma unfolds,
Filling the room with stories untold,
Of rolling green hills and rugged coastlines,
Where the spirit of Ireland forever shines.
Móin, a scented tribute to the turf's ancient reign,
Igniting memories, like embers in a flame,
It kindles a longing for emerald landscapes grand,
And the warmth of Irish hospitality, hand in hand.
So let the fragrance of Móin fill your abode,
Wherever you may wander, wherever you may roam,
For in its gentle glow, you'll find solace and cheer,
As the essence of Irish turf draws you near