A house of glass and concrete dreams,
Where sunlight falls in golden streams,
Mid-century lines against the sky,
A monument to asking why.
The breeze blocks cast their patterned shade,
Across the pool where blue once played,
Through hollow squares, the world appears,
A vanished life from vanished years.
Beyond the wall, the palms stand tall,
Their ragged shadows cross the hall,
The desert wind moves through the trees,
And whispers through the memories.
The water lies beneath the sun,
A turquoise mirror, still, undone.
No voices rise, no children call,
No footsteps cross the courtyard wall.
The lounge chairs bleach beneath the heat,
Dust gathers where bare feet would meet.
A rusted gate hangs open wide,
The last inhabitants have died—
Not all by famine, fire, or war,
But by a dream they wanted more.
They crossed the world, they chased the light,
Convinced that somewhere else was right.
They sought a greener, kinder place,
A world untouched by their disgrace.
They traded home for distant shores,
Then found new deserts, different doors.
They left their gardens, left their land,
Left empty cups of desert sand,
And all the things they'd built with pride
Became the things they left behind.
The cities crumbled, borders blurred,
The silence swallowed every word.
No engines hum, no sirens cry,
Just vultures circling through the sky.
And here the little house remains,
Beneath the sun, beyond the rains,
Its clean geometry, stark and still,
A human dream against the hill.
The breeze blocks frame a world grown wild,
The pool reflects a cloudless mile.
Bougainvillea climbs the stone,
And nature slowly claims her own.
Perhaps the house was never wrong,
Perhaps the world was home all along.
Perhaps the thing they couldn't see
Was all they had, and all they'd need.
For grass is green on distant ground,
Until you learn what's buried down.
And paradise, wherever found,
Can turn to dust beneath your crown.
Now evening falls in shades of rose,
The desert breathes, the cool wind blows.
The palms bow gently, shadows grow,
And stars return to skies below.
No one remains to ask who won,
No one to watch the setting sun.
Just breeze blocks, water, sand, and stone,
A house that waits, but waits alone.
And through the openings, night appears,
A thousand stars from vanished years.
The pool holds heaven, clear and deep—
A world the living couldn't keep.
They searched the earth for something better,
Then vanished without leaving a letter.
And in the silence, one truth stands:
There was no greener grass in other lands.
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