Walls rise in tidy rows, each brick a borrowed breath, 

Windows stare unblinking, mirrors of empty space. 

Rooms unfold like pages unfilled, bereft of heartbeat, 

A house is merely structure—ornament without a soul. 

Thresholds stand awaiting footprints, cold beneath the door, 

Corridors echo silence where laughter has not dared. 

No tender pulse resides within; no warmth to stir the air, 

For walls without our stories hold only hollow calm. 

But home unfolds in breath and voice, in echoes of our love, 

Each chair a harbour, every beam the cradle of our joys. 

Here, respect drapes every corner, welcome folds around each guest, 

And hearts unbolt their secret rooms to share their truest selves. 

In home, the air is fragrant with laughter’s familiar note, 

Windows frame our restless dreams returning with the dusk. 

No matter how we wander far, this sanctuary remains— 

A quiet crucible of peace where being simply you is grace.