Há uma linguagem demasiado profunda para que meras palavras possam capturá-la. É nesse espaço sagrado que “amor”, “paixão” e “êxtase” residem—não como meras expressões que caem dos lábios como folhas de outono, mas como forças titânicas que moldam os contornos da nossa própria essência. O amor, esse escultor eterno, vai lapidando nossas defesas, revelando a escultura luminosa que há dentro de nós. É uma melodia silenciosa cuja ressonância pode derrubar muros e erguer pontes para margens inalcançáveis. A paixão, a ardente pintora, cobre nossa tela com matizes tão vibrantes que se gravam na memória, incendiando nossos desejos e alimentando nossos … Continue reading Sentimentos

Les 13 commandements de la vie : Continue reading Les 13 commandements de la vie :

I offer no excuses, no explanations. I am far too tired to make the effort …And yet the poems, the sequences of words keep coming, too fast to be finessed well, a tumble of words and thoughts, and I am unused to this creative wellspring, not having seen its likes in years, decades, and I wonder why, why now, why when I want to gave up on the poems…Anyway, I wrote a poem another day, and once again, I’m sharing, even though it is rough, because the need to put this out here is stronger than my need to hide, … Continue reading Soup

Les mains qui aident portent une lumière que la prière seule ne saurait allumer. Elles se tendent, accueillent, pansent sans attendre d’écho céleste. Dans leur simple mouvement, il y a la foi la plus tangible—celle qui se mesure à la douceur d’un geste, à la chaleur d’une paume offerte sans raison autre que l’humanité. Car les prières montent, mais les mains bâtissent. Elles réparent, apaisent, soutiennent là où les mots se heurtent au silence. Dans chaque toucher, il y a une forme sacrée d’attention, un murmure discret qui rappelle que ce monde n’a jamais été fait pour être traversé seul. … Continue reading Les Mains

I am a details person—attuned to small moments, gliding light, the gentle clink of tinkering spoons. Yet, I am also one to be overtaken by the weight and anxieties of the human heart, both my own and those that press in around me. It is easy to succumb to these surges of feeling, to lose all sense of placement and perspective. You should lose your place, sometimes. But the heart is made of intricate chambers. Other times, all you need is to pull up a quiet chair and listen—to the workings rather than the work itself. To remember that we … Continue reading Details —

Ça se peut qu’un jour, on se parle de moins en moins, ou même plus du tout. Mais sache que si ça arrive, c’est pas ce que je voulais. En fait, je t’aurais gardé pour toute la vie, comme on l’avait dit. Ça se peut aussi que je rencontre du nouveau monde. Que j’aie l’air heureuse. Que j’aie l’air d’aller bien. Ça se peut que je déménage, que je change d’air, que j’essaie de me changer les idées et de me rafraîchir le cœur ailleurs. Tu le sais, je me cherche encore. Peut-être qu’au fond, partir loin me ferait du … Continue reading Si jamais tu sens que j’t’oublie, c’est pas vrai.

I stirred from slumber, my hands entwined with another’s, pulses syncing in a silent dance of intimacy. It was there, in the tender clasp of fingers, that I discovered love—a mosaic of fleeting moments and gentle touches. Love, I realized, is delicate and unassuming. It whispers in the shadows, lingers as an afterthought, and weaves itself into the fabric of the mundane.It’s the subtle presence in the gaps of life—the sighs and glances exchanged in the transient spaces of subway cars, where souls converge and part, perhaps never to meet again. Love is the accidental treasure trodden underfoot on your … Continue reading Fragment 55

The path of the poet …In just three lines at the end of one of the most beautiful poems of the world of the literature, Robert Frost summed up the human condition: “I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —I took the one less travelled by,and that has made all the difference.” ❤ Continue reading Robert Frost