The Transformation of Attar

In Nishapur's dust and blazing heat, A physician walked the wealthy street— Young hands skilled in healing's art, Rich purse, restless, yearning heart That craved what gold could never meet. Wine and laughter filled his nights, Pleasure fed his appetites, Till one dawn brought strange surprise: An old man with ancient eyes And bundle clutched with all his might. "Master," spoke that voice so low, "Tell me what you truly know— When death's shadow finds your door, How will you, so rich, so sure, Release your breath and let it go?" The physician's anger flared: "How dare you, old and silver-haired! You who stand in rags and dust— Answer first, as answer you must: How will you meet death's blade bared?" The stranger smiled, spoke no more, Laid his bundle on the floor, Stretched upon the shop's cold stone, Folded hands, flesh turned to bone, Breathed his last within the store. Silence struck like hammer's blow. The physician, bending low, Felt for pulse that was not there, Touched the skin grown cold and bare, Watched the final letting go. His hand withdrew, his spirit shook— The gold fell silent where he looked. Within his chest, a silence grew, A cry that no one ever knew, That shattered all his greedy book. The hands that mixed the healing draught Trembled at the truth they caught: Death had come not with a roar, But gentle as the morning shore, Teaching truths no coin had bought. Years would turn, and Nishapur Would know him as a seeker pure— Not of gold or earthly gain, But of truths that heal all pain, Love that makes the breath endure. From physician's counting mind Came verses of a different kind: Birds in conference took their flight, Sacred words that brought the light To hearts both lost and blind. He was Attar, mystic-born, Who turned from gold to sacred thorn, Whose pharmacy of the heart Gave healing of a deeper art— Till souls took wing at break of morn.