Silence, Stone, and Story

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.

Most lives do not collapse. They thin. They become functional, organised, reasonable—until the soul forgets what a life is for. Meaning is not granted. It is built: through illness, through love, through art, through grief—through the slow discipline of fidelity, and the choice of a centre that will not be betrayed.