I had seen countless photographs of the Nasir al-Molk Mosque—people standing in a river of rainbow light, glowing carpets shimmering under stained glass windows—but nothing prepares you for the moment you step inside yourself. The morning I visited the famous Pink Mosque in Shiraz, I remember pausing at the doorstep, unsure whether I was about to enter a place of worship or a dream carved from sunlight.
The mosque was still quiet, its courtyard washed in soft dawn colors. The pink tiles that give the mosque its nickname—each hand-painted during the Qajar era—seemed to blush as the rising sun warmed them. I walked slowly, almost hesitantly, because every step felt like stepping deeper into history. And then, as I entered the prayer hall, the real magic unfolded.
Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows in cascading beams—reds, blues, greens, and golds melting into one another. Suddenly the floor, the pillars, even my hands were covered in shifting patterns of color. I remember thinking, “This is what it must feel like to walk inside a living painting.” It’s no wonder the mosque has earned worldwide fame as one of the most beautiful Islamic architectural masterpieces.
But beyond its beauty, the story of the Pink Mosque is what stayed with me. Built between 1876 and 1888 by the order of Mirza Hasan Ali Nasir al-Molk, the mosque was designed with extraordinary attention to detail. The architects—Mohammad Hasan-e-Memar and Mohammad Reza-e-Kashi-Saz—chose an unusual color palette for the tilework. Instead of the blues and greens typical of Persian mosques, they used warmer hues dominated by rose pink. It was a bold choice at the time, but today, that decision is exactly what makes the mosque unforgettable.
While walking inside, I found myself imagining the craftsmen who spent years designing the stained glass patterns, or the workers who laid each tile by hand. They probably never knew that more than a century later, people from all over the world would travel to Shiraz just to witness the spectacle created by their craftsmanship.
The play of light lasts only a few hours every morning. By noon, the colors fade, the sunlight shifts, and the mosque returns to its calm, gentle state. Standing there, watching the last rays pull away from the carpet, I realized that part of its charm comes from the fact that its beauty is temporary—like a sunrise, you can’t capture it fully. You can only experience it.
Leaving the Pink Mosque felt a bit like waking from a dream. But it’s the kind of dream you carry with you long after you’re gone—a reminder that architecture is not just stone and tile. Sometimes, it is poetry written in color and light.
