The Apsara and the Stone
—a poem by Lucas Varro
There dwelt a maid of temple grace,
her steps once carved in flight—
she danced no more through time or space,
but waited, veiled in night.
Her fingers poised in curving air,
her gaze cast down in stone—
she yearned for one who once stood there,
but now she danced alone.
He was a guardian hewn of gold,
a sentinel, wise and still,
whose arms had once the heavens held,
yet bound by timeless will.
She loved him through the roots of years,
through lichen, rain, and flame—
whispered songs no soul could hear,
and traced his hidden name.
One dusk beneath the sacred fig,
when even winds lay hushed,
she touched his brow with trembling light—
and into stone she rushed.
Her shadow wove within his form
as petals graced the shrine;
temple walls grew warm with song
no lips would dare define.
They never speak, they never move—
yet stones remember clear
the breath of one apsara,
her presence woven here.
And once each year, when moonlight parts
the gate where lions wait,
they step from walls with silver hearts—
and dance beyond all fate.
Also in Library
The Weight of Light
In the hush before dawn, light gathers until waiting becomes prayer.
Long exposure teaches surrender — to breathe with time, to let the unseen complete the image.
What remains on film is not possession, but trust made visible.
The Silence Between Temples
Between one breath and the next, the world holds its pulse in silence.
Here, between temples, devotion hums without voice—light becoming memory, memory becoming air.
Step softly into the space where sound has already bowed,
and feel the sacred linger in what remains unspoken.
Hands of the Sculptor — The Craft as Meditation
In the hush of the galleries, the sculptor listens rather than strikes.
Each breath, each measured blow, opens silence a little further.
Unfinished reliefs reveal the moment when mastery becomes meditation—
when patience itself is carved into being,
and the dust that falls at a mason’s feet becomes the residue of prayer.
