A selected print and book — current offerings from the Gallery and Library.

A monk and a girl do not touch.
The law speaks louder than breath.
Their names pass mouth to mouth, like prayer.
This bilingual poem is offered in the spirit of a Khmer tragic love story—where devotion survives prohibition, and grief becomes a form of listening.

In a year of drought, a woman comes from the flats and asks for a vow instead of rain. Salt is withheld. Water arrives only by measure. A gate listens. This is not a story about abundance, but about keeping—what land, seasons, and people owe each other when gifts are no longer enough.

This poem listens to Angkor not as ruin, but as grammar—where moss, shadow, and proportion carry devotion forward without spectacle. What endures here is not glory, but measure: a way of standing that no longer needs witnesses.

At harvest, the danger is not hunger but forgetting how to listen.
This folklore retelling speaks of drums struck for silence, of grain taken without gratitude, and of a narrow figure who does not punish—only waits. A tale of pacts made not with spirits, but with attention itself.