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A single leaf moved, then stilled.  The wind, like the breath of someone dreaming, passed gently through and was gone.  Rain clung to the fig’s bark in thin silver strands.  The threshold held its posture—open, but not offering.

The scene had completed itself.  All that remained was to listen.  To lower the camera like an offering.  To place one’s silence against another silence and wait.

The shutter opened.  Light gathered without urgency, as if drawn by scent rather than speed.


The roots remember more than the wall—
sky translated into sap,
stone softened by chant,
names the Kala continues to chew.

Within their narrow veins,
silence travels—
a slow, deliberate river
seeking the temple’s unlit heart.

And I,
a brief glint of stillness,
carry back one breath
before it returns
to hush.


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