In Attar’s The Invisible Sun, each page offers inspiration and guidance the way a vial of ink offers possibilities to a pen.
According to the 12th-century Iranian Sufi mystic poet Attar (1145–1221), it is not the world that needs saving, but we who are in desperate need of rescue—from the clutches of our own ego, that “cyclone of calamities.”
One of the greatest visionary poets in Persian literature, Attar composed works that blend allegory, parable, and deep spiritual insight. Best known for The Conference of the Birds, he often spoke not of changing the world, but of transforming the self. His words continue to resonate across centuries, as if they were written precisely for this precarious age.
He writes:
Both worlds, the upper and the lower, are but a drop of water, neither here nor there. When that droplet first appears, it is replete with reflections. But even if all those reflections were of iron, the hardest of metals, you could still shatter them back into water drops. Whatever has its foundation in water, be it fire, is nothing but illusion. When water itself is not stable, how can you use it as a firm foundation?
This luminous metaphor is more than metaphysical musing. Whether Attar intended it or not, his image offers a lens through which we might view our current ecological predicament. What is our environmental crisis if not the cumulative projection of a species out of alignment with its source? The water he speaks of—once symbolic, elemental, sacred—is now acidic, overdrawn, and plastic-choked. Our foundations—oceans, glaciers, aquifers—are no longer metaphorically unstable. They are literally collapsing.
Attar’s poetry warns against our conceited selves, our nafs (the ego—derived from the Latin ē′gō, meaning “I”) that stands between us and the Beloved, between our constructed identity and the true self. In Sufi thought, to die before dying is to let go of this lower self. With that dissolution, all religious divisions, self-righteous certainties, and moralistic binaries fall away. Only then do we begin to see with the inner eye, reclaiming a self that is neither separate nor superior, but interwoven with all life.
Today, this inner disorder expresses itself on a planetary scale. Our egotism is embedded in systems of overproduction, extraction, and domination over nature. We’ve built civilizations atop the illusion that the earth is ours to exploit. But as Attar reminds us, when water itself is not stable, all that rests upon it is bound to fall. Even iron, the very symbol of strength and industry, is but a fleeting reflection in the droplet.
So can literature save the world? Not in the activist sense. But mystical literature—poetry like Attar’s—can awaken us. It challenges our certainties, dissolves illusions, and reorients us from the surface toward the source. The ecological crisis, like the spiritual one, is not merely out there. It arises from a profound disconnection: from soul, from earth, from each other.
Attar’s wisdom urges a radical humility: to see the planet not as object, but as mirror. The healing of our world begins not with dominance, but with reflection—of the kind that shimmers in a single drop of water.
This is where The Invisible Sun enters—not as a doctrine, but as a lamp. It is not merely a book for those seeking spiritual clarity; it is a necessary companion for those who care about the fate of the earth. In a time of ecological devastation and social fragmentation, it’s tempting to focus only on external solutions—policy, protest, innovation. These are vital, yes, but insufficient. Without inner transformation, outer reform is hollow.
The poems in The Invisible Sun speak in quiet tones, but their echoes are vast. They do not prescribe a creed nor invoke a God of any particular name or form. Instead, they invite the reader into conversation with their own soul and its immense capacity to expand. Each page offers inspiration and guidance the way a vial of ink offers possibilities to a pen. What the book offers is as light or as profound as the reader’s readiness. And that readiness grows with each return.
This is not a withdrawal from the world, but a reorientation within it. A person in tune with their own soul begins to move differently on the earth—more attentively, more reverently. From that stillness, a new kind of activism emerges: not rooted in fear or urgency, but in awe.
In this way, The Invisible Sun becomes more than a book. It is a seed of transformation—personal, spiritual, and planetary. It reminds us that to serve the world, we must first see it clearly. And to see clearly, we must begin by healing what is fractured within ourselves.
Sholeh Wolpé is an Iranian-born poet, writer, and librettist. Her literary work includes seven poetry collections, several plays, five books of translations, three anthologies, and librettos and texts for choir and opera. The Invisible Sun (HarperCollins, 2025) is her collection of Attar’s most enduring wisdom.
Read Melissa L. Sevigny’s interview with Sholeh Wolpé: “Poetry is Impervious to Bullets,” as well as poetry by Sholeh Wolpé appearing in Terrain.org: “Dear America,” a Letter to America poem, and “How Hard is It to Write a Love Song.”
Header photo by LedyX, courtesy Shutterstock.
