There is a house where silence sings,
beneath the shade of tree-born wings,
its roof a blush of ember red,
where fig jam dreams are softly spread.
The cupboards hum with cinnamon,
not just of spoons, but days begun—
with laughter steeped in morning light,
and stories tucked away at night.
A lane now winds where none had been,
inviting hearts to wander in,
past reeds that whisper near the lake,
whose waters learned to dance awake.
No cracked facade, no ghostly moan,
this house was built to be a home—
a tribute to the dream that dared
to bloom in daylight, unprepared.
It offers shade, it offers flame,
it knows your fears, but speaks your name.
And in its walls, the trees still grow—
a life imagined, made to show.