The Apsara and the Stone
There dwelt a maid of temple grace,
her steps once carved in flight—
she danced no more through time or space,
but waited out the light.
Her fingers stilled in curving air,
her gaze cast down in stone—
she longed for one who once stood there,
but now she danced alone.
He was a guardian hewn from gold,
a statue still and wise,
whose arms had once the heavens held,
now watching changeless skies.
She loved him through the roots of years,
through lichen, rain, and flame—
she whispered songs no soul could hear,
and traced his face by name.
One dusk beneath the sacred fig,
when even winds lay still,
she touched his brow with trembling light—
and vanished by her will.
Her shadow wove around his form
as petals graced the shrine,
and temple walls grew warm with song
no lips would dare define.
They never speak, they never move—
and yet the stones have known
the breath of one apsara
still woven through the stone.
And once a year, when moonlight parts
the gate where lions wait,
they step from walls with silver hearts—
and dance beyond the late.
Also in My Journal
The Whispering Forest: Arak and the Celestial Light
Beneath the tamarind’s silent boughs, something breathes between root and star. A boy is taken, a forest stirs, and the old songs rise again—carried not by words, but by wind, memory, and the voices that whisper where offerings are left and the veil grows thin.
The Rabbit and the Elephant
In the hush of a moonlit forest, where banyan roots cradle still water, something stirs—a whisper of pride, a shadow of wisdom, and a ripple that never comes. Look closely. The pond does not move. The moon does not blink. But something old remembers.
In the Shadow of the Sacred Wall - Morning at the Bayon
Mist drifts over ancient stone, where gods are carved into memory and silence carries the weight of forgotten prayers. Somewhere between shadow and gold light, something eternal waits—unmoving, and yet alive.
