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The air before dawn was thick with sandalwood and stone.  My breath slowed as I entered the gopura, matching the rhythm of monks passing ahead.  The statue stood waiting—eight arms unmoving, sequins catching the last star of night.  His smile had not changed in centuries.

He did not look at me.  But presence has weight.  It settled just behind my ribs—where memory keeps its oldest keys.  Some moments cannot be framed; only received.  I positioned the tripod not to act, but to listen.  One long exposure became a vow.

In the darkroom, I shaped the silence with chiaroscuro.  Not to replicate the moment—but to honour its hush.

 

The sequins held night’s last star.
A monk passed, barefoot, unnoticed.
His saffron robe touched air like wind through silk.

Stone remembers patience.
Light offered nothing; it waited.
Then the shutter—and the statue—
did not move,
but something eternal did.

His smile remains.
Not joy, nor sorrow.
Just the balance that outlives both.


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