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She does not call attention.
She does not need to.
Framed by the western gate, she stands where the temple exhales—above noise, above ruin, above time.

The light that touches her is not light. It is the hush that arrives when light is almost gone. A golden hush that knows its name will not be spoken again until tomorrow.

Her carved arm lifts a blossom. Not in offering, not in performance, but in remembrance.

I moved slowly, so as not to disturb what was already still. Every element—the vines, the stone, the air—had receded in deference to her.

The camera waited with me. I exposed the film without expectation, only reverence.

The fire I saw on her brow is not in the final print.
It is the space from which the print was made.


She does not glow—

she remembers.

Light moves through her
without falling.

Her hand—
a question carved
in silence.

Gold rises not from the sun,
but from stone.

And I,
too brief for memory,
still bow.


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