The House, a Sestina

Near the bottom of the Du Ziz valley,
among the pink oleander, the palms, and the sand,
an abandoned house stands in nearly constant shadow.
The thatched roof of shattered bamboo lets rain
stream down crumbling mud walls, staining windows,
and finally pooling onto the floor,

seeping into cracks in the cement floor.
Once, I stood in front of this house in the valley,
and peered through the holes in the windows.
Wind whispered around the house and loosened sand
from the ceiling, creating the illusion of golden rain.
Everywhere, there were shadows

of many shapes due to the collection of debris. Twisted shadows,
some lying prostrate on the floor,
others reaching the roof, as if to climb out to touch the rain,
or to simply escape this dark part of the valley.
The sounds of the wind combined with the sounds of the sand,
calling out to me through the window.

You, they rasped, come away from that window.
Come in, have tea. I took my place among the shadows,
the ghosts of men in black djellabas. The wind and sand
continued to sigh at me as I settled onto the floor.
I was the first house in this valley.
I was here before the palms, before the rain,

before the river that was birthed by the rain,
that same river just outside my window.
I was filled with life. I brought life to this valley,
but now, inside of me there are only shadows
that spend endless hours on the floor.
Everything that was mine has been emptied. More sand

fell from the roof and onto the sand
that lined the floor. Soon, there would be more rain.
This debris is not mine, but it is inside of me now, covering the floor.
People pass this house, children throw rocks at the windows
that hit the shadows. The shadows
don’t notice it anymore. I cannot leave this valley.

The rain had now reached the valley.
As I left, I looked back in through the window
at the shadows, still prostrate on the floor, among the debris.