Complimentary worldwide shipping on orders over $400 · No import tariffs for most countries

0

Your Cart is Empty

The gate holds warmth, though the sun has gone. I have been here before, but never like this. There is a flame I cannot see, only feel—in the stone, in her lifted hand, in the way no vine dares cross her gaze.

She is not asking. She is not waiting. She is simply there, carrying something older than light.

I press the shutter as the fire fades. What remains is not loss, but offering.

the carved hand offers
what the sun could not withhold—
ember without end


Also in Library

Stone That Remembers the Sky
Stone That Remembers the Sky

1 min read

This poem listens to Angkor not as ruin, but as grammar—where moss, shadow, and proportion carry devotion forward without spectacle. What endures here is not glory, but measure: a way of standing that no longer needs witnesses.

Read More
Rice-Ghost and the Seven Drums
Rice-Ghost and the Seven Drums

3 min read

At harvest, the danger is not hunger but forgetting how to listen.
This folklore retelling speaks of drums struck for silence, of grain taken without gratitude, and of a narrow figure who does not punish—only waits. A tale of pacts made not with spirits, but with attention itself.

Read More
Sepia-toned banner illustration of a jungle-choked ancient stone doorway, its entrance wrapped by a massive naga-like serpent and tangled roots, leading into deep shadow and mist.
Naga Vow

2 min read

A lost city sleeps in the jungle, its thresholds carved with serpents — not ornament, but law. This vow-poem enters love as sacred hunger: desire as guardianship, devotion as possession, the body speaking without language. A liturgy of heat, roots, rain, and the terrible tenderness of being claimed.

Read More