Poetry

Light rests on the Buddha’s chest without revealing him. In this moment of reverent waiting, the image forms as presence—not picture. The serpent shelters, the stone remembers, and the poem listens.

Before the shutter, gold pressed into the leaves. A dancer turned inside the stone, listening for the step that never ends.

Columns lean and light listens. This piece begins in the hush after rain and unfolds into a quiet poem—a meditation on memory, apsaras, and the breath that returns to what still listens.

She doesn’t move, but something in the stone breathes. The lotus rests in her hand. Light answers a question she never asked. I keep the shutter open.

Rainlight slips from palm to stair as monk and dog trade silence for movement. In this lyrical meditation and poem, watch stone discover its pulse and hear how loyalty teaches prayer to walk soft across the morning.

Stone does not defend. It listens. In this lyrical meditation, Lucas Varro enters the hush of the causeway, where the Deva’s gesture becomes a quiet vow held in breath.

At the edge of the royal baray, even the nāga curl into gentleness. This meditation enters the waiting, where water receives sky and the shutter listens longer than thought.

A single droplet mirrors jungle and shrine. The artist’s note—let light speak first—unfurls into a poem where shadow leans toward root, and dawn releases itself back to stone. Follow the droplet’s fall, and find what remains poised in mid-air.

In this meditation of light and form, the artist recalls how carved hands and jungle gold became one slow gesture. A free verse poem rises from silence to echo what the stone revealed.

A tower open to the sky, a goddess glowing from within. This poetic field note and verse trace the lingering hush of light as it gathers, lingers, and transforms into breath.

The print begins where sound ends. Through damp stone and soft breath, the artist steps across a threshold of light and form—until gesture becomes invitation.

A droplet slips down carved stone and is gone. Yet the air holds its rhythm, and the apsara listens. This field note opens into poem—where rain, gesture, and memory carry the breath of a vanished drum.

A strand of dawn loosens the final darkness. Beneath a serpent’s hood the Buddha absorbs the first radiance, and an image rises from pure listening. Stone, light, and analogue film conspire in a hush that quivers before vibration, inviting the reader to linger on the edge of sound …

The temple doesn’t rise—it watches. A long breath opens into dusk-grey sky. In the hush before exposure, before birds, before names, something sacred begins to remember itself…

Stone glistens with mist. An apsara waits where shadow lifts. What begins as quiet perception flows into a poem shaped by time, breath, and the mercy of endurance.

A slow breath of light finds her where columns hush. Between poem and prose, the artist reflects on devotion, stillness, and the divine presence that endures in stone…

Light moves like memory across the eastern corridor of Ta Prohm. A brief field note unfolds into a free verse poem that echoes the stillness of the print—inviting the reader to vanish gently into stone, shadow, and breath.

In the hush before light, stone breathes and the bite becomes prayer. This is not a wound but a vow—one etched into shadow, shaped in silence, and carried like ember…

Still water receives the barefoot arrival of light, and time unspools in one long breath. Moving from dawn-side observation into hand-toned reverie, this piece listens for the moment when reflection becomes the truest face of stone—and invites you to listen, too…

Warm stone greets rain; a lion keeps vigil. In the charged quiet, a poem rises—clouded towers, thunder’s single syllable, a stair that opens instead of climbs. Presence lingers where gods once placed a weightless foot…

Rain clings to fig bark, the air folds inward, and one breath opens the shutter. This quiet field note and poem descend together into the hush where root and darkness become one pulse...

The air leans inward. The camera waits. Beneath stone and sky, the poem arrives like thunder withheld. Not an act of taking—but a listening between watchers who never once blink…

Mist and breath, root and roar—this quiet meditation leads gently into a poem shaped by stillness and stone. An unseen tension, held like an unopened syllable…

The face towers of Bayon lean toward each other in morning hush. One shadowed, one alight. The artist listens—and in that listening, a poem rises, shaped by silence and the slow rhythm of breath becoming image…

A moss-covered face lifts toward clouded sky. This short meditation traces a moment of perception into poetic memory, where rain becomes ritual and stone becomes breath…

Golden hour slips side-long into Angkor Wat, and the Battle of Kurukshetra shimmers instead of shouts. Varro’s lens receives, rather than seizes, a scene where stone, light, and hush entwine. What emerges is not history, but a resonant stillness that echoes beneath every story we think we know.

Before the shutter falls, the artist listens to stone and silence until presence becomes breath.  This luminous pairing of field note and poem reveals how stillness presses inward and a god remembers through sequined dusk and vow-bound light…

High above the jungle canopy, where stone meets sky, a giant stirs beneath Phnom Bakheng. Born of earth and legend, he rises not in fury—but in sorrow—his towering form a silent witness to the ambitions of kings and the turning of stars. Step into the myth where temples breathe and the ancient still remembers.

In the hushed light of dawn, two ancient face towers meet in silent communion.  This reflection explores the sacred stillness of Bayon Temple — where shadow, stone, and time converge in a quiet breath.

At Srah Srang, Angkor, even silence holds presence. Stone lions witness, nagas remember, and the sacred welcomes you as though you’ve always belonged. A meditation on place, stillness, and the temple within.