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A fine mist clung to the stone.  Even the leaves seemed to hold their breath.  I paused at the edge of the western gallery, where a corridor folds inward like prayer.  Her form waited just ahead—half in shadow, half in becoming.

I did not move toward her at once.  I stood and watched.  Her hand, her brow, the soft lean of her shoulder had all been smoothed by time, as though rain had re-sculpted her in its own slow language.  It was not reverence I felt, but something quieter—older.  A sorrowful grace, as if beauty and impermanence had become one body.

The camera hung at my side.  When I finally raised it, I did so gently, letting her image settle onto the ground glass.  The light reached her wrist.  That was the moment I waited for.

The photograph was an act of stillness.  The poem came later.


She leaned into light
as if it had spoken her name—
softly, from across
the centuries.

Not carved,
but weathered into being—
like a hymn remembered
by stone.

Rain had touched her lips.
Time had kissed
the sharpness from her brow.
What remained
was presence.

Not perfection—
but the mercy of enduring
with grace.


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