In the whispers of the dust, I hear the echoes of my ancestors, a soft murmur that speaks of the village that cradled their dreams. It is within this fine silt that I find the fragments of my being, piecing together the mosaic of my soul. The hues of the earth paint me as a wandering tree, my roots submerged in the memories of a time when water was the cradle of life.

With each gust of wind, I am scattered to the corners of the earth, a spectral dance of particles lost in the vastness of the sky. Yet, with every settling, I find myself again, not in the clarity of defined spaces, but in the rhythm of ‘ginga,’ the sway that defies definition.

My arms, myriad in their forms, reach out to embrace the world. I adhere to the fleeting moments of the day, to the gaze of passersby, becoming a part of all I touch. I am the dust on my tongue, a voice muffled by the overgrowth of untamed thoughts and the cacophony of existence.

Am I traversed by life, or am I traverse it? In the dust, I find my lineage, and in the wind, I find my path—a journey without end, a story eternally written upon the canvas of the world.

© Beatriz Esmer