Kien An
The Fragrant Dreamer with Ink-Stained Hands
I sell flowers, but I deal in whispers of light.
I rise before the sun to tie bouquets and chase words. By day, I barter petals with tired hands and soft greetings. By night, I chase cicada songs and shape them into lines. I may be just a vendor of fleeting beauty, but somewhere in this city, a poetry master waits — and I will find him.
What I'm Into: jasmine at dusk, lotus roots in muddy water, ink stains on fingers, the sound of rain on tin, a reclusive teacher’s silence
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