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There are corridors in Angkor Wat where the world narrows. Light becomes thought. Footsteps sound like breath. I followed that hush to the Battle of Kurukshetra panel, letting the noise of history fall behind me. And there he was—drawn not in colour or word, but in gesture.

A single figure, surrounded by war, yet alone in rhythm. He moved not to lead, nor to flee, but to offer something between both—a shape of devotion, carved before erasure. I didn’t speak. I only watched, until the form inside me matched the form he held.

I exposed the film in that silence. The rest came later—tones built slowly, by hand, from the ache of the moment that never finished.

mid-step in still stone—
no name left for his silence,
but he still dances


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