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

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.

A lost city sleeps in the jungle, its thresholds carved with serpents — not ornament, but law. This vow-poem enters love as sacred hunger: desire as guardianship, devotion as possession, the body speaking without language. A liturgy of heat, roots, rain, and the terrible tenderness of being claimed.

A true spirituality does not demand answers. It demands integrity. In a world starving for depth, Woo sells comfort disguised as wisdom — replacing reverence with invention. But the sacred is not built from claims. It is built from attention, restraint, and the courage to say, with clean humility: we don’t know for sure.