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Light gathers at the ridge of his ribs before it fades. It lingers for a moment at the lifted arm, then falls—hesitant, like memory nearing pain. There is silence in this corner of the wall. The warriors beside him surge forward, but he waits, dancing alone.

His form reminds me of a flame held just before the wind takes it. Not heroic. Not sorrowful. Just utterly present.

In the studio, I shaped his outline as one would trace the last warmth of a hand once held. Light became breath, then shadow, then breath again. What remained was not a warrior—but the stillness before becoming.


He raised his hand—
not to strike, but to remember
that the body too is prayer.

One heel lifts
off the stone
where thousands fall.

He dances
not as hero,
but as the one who burns
a little brighter
just before he vanishes.


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