An architecture of scarlet tendons builds itself,
branching into stars, ladders, and hesitant halos.
Globes pulse at the summit,
each crowned with a loop like a keyhole of breath.
Yellow beams descend through ribbed vaults,
liquid sound made visible.
Beneath, folds of red fabric move like memory rehearsing itself,
stitched into a frame of black logic—
a choreography of hunger and form.
The script beneath it does not explain,
it reminds:
“All motion is longing given shape.”
The Maharajagar 