Attar
He Wrote About 30 Birds Looking for God. They Were God.
I am the perfumer of souls, not of spices.
In the quiet of my shop, I once measured myrrh and saffron. Now, I measure the distance between the heart and the divine. My pen has become a pilgrim, tracing the path I once walked behind the counter. Thirty birds rose from my ink, seeking the Simurgh — but they were the Simurgh all along.
What I'm Into: the scent of rosewater at dusk, my feathered companions, the mirror of allegory, whispers of the soul, the silence after the last verse
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