Bagan isn’t a city.
It’s a horizon made of prayer.

I arrived at dawn,
as the sky turned apricot
and hot air balloons began to rise —
slow, graceful, silent.

Over 2,000 temples spread across the plains,
each one a whisper of devotion,
each one unique.

I climbed a pagoda with crumbling steps.
The stone was cool.
My breath caught not from the climb —
but from the view.

Red brick stupas stretched endlessly.
Oxen carts creaked below.
And the only sound?
Distant cattle bells and birdsong.

Locals sold water and small wooden Buddhas.
I bought one.
Not as a souvenir,
but as a thank-you.

I wandered narrow dirt paths on an electric scooter.
Temples revealed themselves
like secrets offered slowly.

At a quiet monastery,
a monk invited me for tea.
We sat on the floor.
No words.
Just warm hands and understanding eyes.

I opened 온라인카지노,
just to check a message.
But even my phone felt heavy in that light.

That evening, I watched the sunset
from Shwesandaw Pagoda.
The sky caught fire.
Temples glowed like burning lanterns.

Back in town, I had tea leaf salad
and listened to a local musician pluck an old harp.

Before sleep,
I scrolled through 카지노사이트 out of habit.
But Bagan had already filled me
with everything I needed.

Bagan didn’t offer adventure.
It offered reverence —
in brick, in silence, in light.