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A corridor built for silence: sandstone ribs, shadowed vaults, a Buddha seated beneath Muchilinda’s sheltering hood.  I wait, not for illumination, but for the inner axis to align.  When it does, the shutter clicks once—thin metallic breath meeting centuries of still stone.  The negative cools in its holder like water cupping moonlight, holding a vow no word can bear.

 

Beneath coiled stone rests
a prayer not yet articulated,
wind before its sound.


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