In the heart of Minas Gerais, where the sun kisses the ancient stones and the air hums with stories of yesteryears, I find myself on a narrow path. It winds through the hills, like the veins of an old heart, carrying memories etched in every cobblestone.

Congonhas do Campo, a town nestled in time, wears its history proudly. Its streets, worn smooth by countless footsteps, echo with the whispers of lovers, dreamers, and weary souls seeking solace. The houses lean in, as if conspiring secrets, their walls adorned with faded murals of saints and sinners.

And there, in the midst of it all, stands my heart—a sanctuary of vulnerability. It opens wide, bleeding the hues of sunset onto the pavement. Each crack, each scar, a testament to resilience. Passersby glance, some hurriedly, others with curiosity. They tread lightly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance of hope and weariness.
My heart, dear wanderer, beats to its own rhythm. It knows the weight of longing, the ache of unfulfilled dreams. Yet, it refuses to surrender. It believes in a better time, a dawn that will kiss away the shadows. Perhaps it’s madness—the kind that keeps poets awake at night, scribbling verses under moonlight. But isn’t all beauty born from madness?

So let them walk by, those good passers. Let them glimpse the mosaic of my soul—the joy and sorrow, the echoes of laughter and tears. For in their fleeting presence, they become part of my journey. They carry fragments of my bleeding heart, unknowingly weaving their stories into its fabric.

And when the night falls, when the stars gather to listen, my heart will still beat. It will pulse with the rhythm of Minas Gerais, of all the hearts that have bled before mine. And perhaps, just perhaps, it will find solace in the shared ache—the knowledge that even in brokenness, there is beauty.

©️ Beatriz Esmer