English Version: Persian Roses: A Red Poem on the Iranian Plateau

The rose valley on the edge of the Kashan Desert always awakens before dawn. Before the first ray of sunlight could climb over Hassan's headscarf, his daughter Farshi had already carrying a wicker basket and darting into the flower bushes—— those roses, known as "Persian rubies", were tremblingly blooming with morning dew, their petal edges glowing with an amber hue unique to the desert.​

"Grandfather said these roses were planted by the Zoroastrian prophet three thousand years ago," Farshi's fingertips brushed the thorny branches, and dew drops fell on her silver bracelets. Every April, the entire village would suspend farm work, and men, women, old and young would kneel in the flower bushes to pick half-opened buds. It is said that fully bloomed flowers lose their souls, and only half-opened buds with morning mist can distill the most mellow essential oil.​

Hassan's copper distiller bubbled and gurgled over the bonfire, as rose petals and spring water lingered in the earthen jar. The rising mist passed through seven copper pipes, finally condensing into an amber liquid —— it takes ten thousand flowers to extract one liter of essential oil. Farshi would secretly store the first drop of essential oil in a small porcelain bottle, a ritual taught by her mother: "This drop of dew holds the breath of the roses, and it will make the bride's wedding dress always carry the scent of sunlight."​

Last winter, a desert storm destroyed half of the flower bushes. When the villagers thought the rose valley would wither, Farshi found a flower branch pressed under a stone in the ruins, with half a faded Persian carpet entangled in its roots. Now those reborn roses bloom extraordinarily brightly, and a faint woolen fragrance wafts during distillation.​

"Look," Farshi held up the crystal bottle filled with essential oil, and the sunlight refracted a rainbow through the liquid, "this is the love letter written by the desert to the world."