Behold the evergreen cloaksOf gnarled branch and verdant leafDrawing back to reveal hidden mystique.

Behold the cinereal spiresHewn from quarries of centuries pastShading the ground with menacing umbra.

Behold the unleavened ledgesBaked with moss and lichen greenLeading up to the beginnings of grandeur.

Behold the emergence of magnificence.Behold Angkor.

As like the majestic lionThe stony maneOf this towering edificeDominates betwixt sky and soilWordlessly, it demandsObeisance and respectAnd us insignificant humansCannot but kneel and worshipAt the basalt altar.

The dusty, grim hues of Angkor WatSurround and suffocate and swallow.A monochrome world painted by History’s palette.

Yet through the cracked tiles of sandstoneA burst of colour eruptsSpewing life onto a desolate wastelandBlossoming with Nature’s seed.

If in this crumbling womb of stone,Can bear an earthly child of springWho are we to say that hope cannot Brighten the loneliest of hearts?

Gazing uponThe war of root against stoneI have wandered intoThe true battlefieldof Nature’s fury.

From the seeds of wrath burst forthThe massive fist of an oaken dragonTwisted root betwixt sundered stoneAnd down below, witness that mosshas encircled even the silent stone

The consequent of time and thornStronger than the fiercest warriorGreater than the noblest kingMightier than the holiest godLet the power of nature roar.

The multitudes of living, breathing CambodiansDon’t matter. For Pol Pot knows best.

The starving infants crying for foodDon’t matter. For Pol Pot knows best.

The tortured souls of tormented victimsDon’t matter. For Pol Pot knows best.

24 provinces mired in povertyDon’t matter. For Pol Pot knows best.

Mountains of bone bleached in whiteDon’t matter. For Pol Pot knows best.

Basic human decencyDoesn’t matter,For I know best.

Priests prophesize Monks meditateImams inspireAll to bring lightto the ignorant heathen.

Cathedrals and churchesMosques and MeccaTemples and templars All a lighthouseto brighten our path.

Darkness may be menacing,Darkness may be evil.Darkness may be insidiousBut it takes only one candleto illuminate the world.

Eight legs weave a widow’s web,Hidden from the target’s sight.Even as that which they afear,Glides stealthily into the night.

But these tattered wings of nightCanvass not craggy cavern’s cover.Hung instead from wiry torture,Is the body of their owner.

A macabre picture of the web of lifeEntombed within the azure blue sky.