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My house is a living organism, with wooden veins and brick hearts that breathe stories
My house is a living organism, with wooden veins and brick hearts that breathe stories
My house is a living organism, with wooden veins and brick hearts that breathe stories,
The cracks in the walls are lifelines, maps of hidden worlds,
The white ceiling is my inner sky, where clouds of thoughts float in silence,
The white paint is a canvas where memories dance in unseen colors,
The dust in the corner is the sand of time, gently settling over moments past,
Wooden doors are gateways to parallel universes, where past and present intertwine,
When I am alone, the house sings me a cosmic lullaby, a symphony of silence,
And my wounds are embraced by the walls that have seen all seasons of my soul,
At dusk, shadows dance like ancient spirits, holding forgotten light in their palms,
The walls gather around me, like an embrace of eternity,
And they tell of buried laughter and tears dried by time,
In this shelter, more than walls, there is a heart that pulses with the beats of my life,
Now, in this living sanctuary, I find an ancestral peace,
My house is a universe in miniature, a poem with walls and windows,
Every crack and sound become words in an unseen journal,
And I, a traveler among dreams and memories, find my roots here, in the depths of my being.
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