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The stone beneath my palm held the day’s departing heat.  Birds fell silent; the corridor drew one long, dim breath.  Dust, rain-memory, and lichen scented the hush.  Bas-relief figures—horses, chariots, warriors—rose not by motion, but by presence.

One figure anchored everything: shield lifted in an act beyond naming.  A final shaft of gold traced his form, gracing sorrow with light older than war.

I waited, camera stilled, to receive rather than claim.  Later, slow washes of gold and ash tempered the print, honouring that hush.  Not an image of battle, but of what outlasts it: a question carried in shadow.

 

evening light lingers—
a fallen shield in shadow
keeps the hush of time


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