Morning Light, June 8th

The morning air held the hush of ancient breath.  Just past dawn, the forest canopy was luminous with dew-glow, every leaf trembling in soft conversation with the breeze.  We set out along the laterite causeway of the South Gate, where stone devas and asuras still enact the Churning of the Ocean of Milk, their faces worn by centuries but not silenced.  I paused to sketch them in sanguine and black chalks, the massive, clenched forms rising like thunder in stone.  The gods’ expressions—some serene, others fierce—spoke of a forgotten theatre of gods.  The face tower above the gate loomed still and silent, inscrutable.

Gods in tug-of-war—
time tightens their ancient grip
under moss and sky.

There is a divine gravity to these stones.  I found myself working boldly, using dense, sculptural lines to reinforce the tension of their poses.  I left the edges raw, unfinished, as if the drawing too were eroded by time.  The paper, rough as temple walls, held the grain of my strokes like the stones once held prayers.

We turned then, quietly, onto the wall-top path—a narrow trail snaking through a cathedral of trees.  It’s a place between worlds, where red dust and green light mingle, and the land seems to remember more than it tells.  The walk felt like a meditation.  I made a pastel sketch of the path curving into mystery, letting the color fall softly, the green hues almost breathing.

This is the path the ancients walked,
Where silence has the scent of rain.
The roots curl in forgotten speech,
And morning light forgives the pain.

In this sketch, the depth was everything—light catching on leaves, receding trunks melting into vaporous green.  I carved with color, letting my hand follow memory rather than form, guided more by mood than detail.

At the southeastern corner of Angkor Thom, among the collapsed stones of Prasat Chrung, I found the broken figure of Lokeśvara—his face peaceful, two of his arms long removed by iconoclasts.  He stood in ruin, yet whole in presence.  There was moss thick beneath him, like time folded gently over his feet.  I knelt, and made a pastel drawing, working carefully to preserve the quiet sorrow and strength of this form.  My lines thickened and trembled as I traced his outline—partly gone, wholly present.

One arm still offering
peace to a world that forgot
how to receive it.

This was not just drawing—it felt like invocation.  The pastel dust clung to my skin, as if the image had passed through me rather than from me.

Finally, on walls of ancient sanctuary of the Prasat Chrung, I encountered the devatā—the celestial dancers still poised in niches, their gestures half-lost, their faces half-erased.  Each figure seemed to exhale the essence of grace, their stillness more fluid than motion.  Here, I took up my chalks again, drawing with reverence and restraint.  I let their gestures guide my hand—curves echoing the flow of sandstone, lines repeated like prayer.

Their hands say what the gods once whispered,
Their eyes hold what time could not steal.
The wall breathes.  And in its breath,
I remember how to feel.

I faded the edges into white, allowing the figures to emerge from the void, much like memory itself.  There was beauty in their incompletion, power in their erosion.  My lines bore the weight of longing.

Reflections

These sketches are not just renderings—they are my way of listening.  The temples do not speak in words, but in light, silence, erosion, and form.  Each mark I make is an attempt to translate their language into something visible.  In this place, I am not the maker of images, but the medium through which the spirit of Angkor draws itself.

The morning left me full—not with answers, but with presence.  And that is enough.

Dust on my fingers—
tracing the gods' broken limbs
I learn how to heal.