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The first touch of rain is gentle, almost hesitant, softening the warmth still stored in laterite.  My open palm hovers a finger’s breadth above the stair; heat rises like an unseen tide.  A guardian lion, eroded yet steadfast, watches the mist slip between his ribs.  I wonder what vows he keeps.

The towers disappear, reappear—breathing cloud.  I stay below, letting the camera fill with anticipation.  Somewhere inside the storm a darker resonance begins to pulse, and I feel the frame align around it.  Light is no longer something to grasp; it is a thought unfolding in stone.

 

The stair does not rise
but opens—
a vein of ancient heat
cooling in rain.

Water beads on the lion’s mane,
each droplet holding
an entire sky.

I wait until thunder
utters a single syllable.
Then silence,
wider than belief,
falls through me
like a door unlatched.

Stone remembers
only the first footfall
of a god
and waits,
patient with centuries,
for the next.

 

When the exposure finally lives, I feel skin prickle as if watched from within the stair itself.  Later, in the darkroom, I will tone each layer until the hush of that gaze returns, luminous and unbound.


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