Here lies a house of uncommon beauty.
Orange from sun, dust and age.
Clay bricks molded by hand – each shaped and crafted by deft fingers.
Scorched by a relentless sun.

Bright. Warm to the touch.
Run your fingers. Touch. Feel.
The character in the markings, in its flaws.
Colour bright fighting for your attention. Your approval?
You’ve seen nothing like it.

Sitting alone on a patch of earth.
There’s not a ghoul in sight.
The expansive space is devoid of design.
All low shrubs and dunes.

The doorbell is deep and loud.
Echoes through the belly of the house.
Shaking out the webs from corners.
Announcing a presence.
It’s a warming sound. Rarely heard, but always welcome.
Resonates, expands and grows.

You step in
The space’s high ceilings allow your lungs breath.
And right at the center. A small round table with a vase.
Long-legged birds of paradise draw you in.

The house has so few rooms.
Large. Voluminous, but few.
You do not need a palace for all your living.

It smells of citrus and sun.
Summer tangs.
It wafts through the air. Embraces you.
You take deep breaths and hold.

Faintly, there’s a hiss in the air.
A sizzle of spices from the kitchen.
Something frying in a pan. The hot oil splattering.
Cumin seeds playing hopscotch.
Copper pots and pans hang above the hob.

The bright open spaces are the only things that people see.
The colours that seem to wink at you.
The rays stream in, chasing away shadows from the walls.
There seems to be nothing hidden.

If there was something that had to go,
It would have to be the corners.
There are more than you’d like.
You never know what is coming towards you.
You can feel vulnerable in large spaces.
You need clearer lines of sight.
You need to see everything at once.

You feel a craving as you leave.
Know that you will miss this place.
Like how you feel as you finish the last bit of cake.
Happy to have been there, to have tasted it.
Sad that it’s over.