Rising from the desert like a fragmented cathedral, the cemetery is an architectural relic of a future untethered from the past.
Towering metallic pipes, polished to a solar shimmer, jut skyward in chaotic harmony—an exoskeleton of scaffolding and memory. Around and between them, memorial bricks are stacked with raw intention, forming shifting walls that seem both ancient and improvised. Light filters through the gaps, dancing across the surfaces like stained glass without glass.

Each pipe functions beyond structure—conducting heat, channelling sound, casting shadows. They anchor the building into the cliffs while allowing space to breathe, cool, and resonate with ritual. Between them, platforms, walkways, and shade canopies unfurl like petals, creating sanctuaries for reflection, performance, and grief.

At the highest point, a monument of glass shards—formed from the cremated long-lived—catches the sun. The result is an ever-changing aurora of colour and refraction, a kinetic lightscape rippling over a shimmering sacred pool.

Here, architecture is memory. The materials are the dead. And the structure itself, like a living ruin ever shifting and replenished with each life lost, becomes an evolving archive of the community’s past, present, and future.

This is not just a cemetery. It’s a civilization etched in light, stone, and story