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Rain awakens the courtyards before light uncurls from the horizon.  A hush like warm iron rises from laterite, sweet-scented, mineral, oddly tender.  I stand at the foot of Pre Rup’s ancient stair listening for language older than words.  The camera waits closed, its bellows folded like lungs neither emptied nor full.  I inhale the presence gathering here—at once thunderous and whisper-thin—until breath lengthens to match the hush.

A palm frond shivers.  Far above, the five towers hover on the rim of cloud, half-erased, half-revealed, as if the gods had just stirred from meditation.  I feel their attention settle—a weightless gravity drawing every sense inward.  I do nothing.  The moment asks only stillness.

Then, without intention, the shutter opens.  Exposure becomes a form of reverence, not capture.  Mist drifts across the lens.  Rain stipples my back.  Each second stretches, luminous and slow; the stair seems to unclasp itself from time.

Stone towers exhale rain—
morning climbs the silent stair,
gods wake in storm-light.

Afterwards, I close the camera with the care of extinguishing incense.  The towers remain, listening.  I leave quietly, a guest who has glimpsed, for a breath, the interior sky.


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