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To listen without expectation—that is how stone uncloses.

Barefoot on flagstones still cool with night, I enter the cruciform heart of Angkor Wat.  Incense has long ascended, yet a fragrant hush remains, draped across pillars like a prayer stalled in its first syllable.  In that hush rests a single figure: the Buddha in dhyāna, nested beneath Muchilinda’s coiled hood.

His gaze bends inward, palms shaping a circle wide enough to cradle silence itself.  The sandstone, polished by centuries of hands and breath, offers presence rather than weight.  So I do not lift the camera.  I breathe, I match the stillness.

At last a filament of dawn brushes the serpent’s brow.  My shutter falls—not to seize, but to receive—medium-format film opening like a small lung, holding the unstruck sound of interior dawn.

 

Unstruck dawn resounds—
stone coils guard the early hush,
stillness shelters light.


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