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Grey morning settles like ash over the citadel of women.  Banteay Srei stands hushed beneath the weight of cloud, its carvings damp with yesterday’s silence.

I come upon her gently—framed by curling foliage and supported by hamsas that seem ready to lift.  Her presence feels partial, like a word spoken only halfway, like something not yet finished in this world.

There is a grace that doesn’t move and yet alters everything it touches.  I step closer.  For a moment I forget the camera.  Then breath returns, and with it the shutter—held long enough for the sky to remember her.

 

Rain pauses on stone—
winged grace inside the silence
teaches time to bow.


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