History whispers, in a solemn tone, like one who has seen too much: beware, wars over territory are the most dangerous. It doesn’t speak loudly — it knows danger hides in the silence between one border and another, in the desire for possession disguised as affection. And then, with the gravity of one who carries centuries on its shoulders, it bends to reveal an ancestral secret: your body is geography too.

Yes, living geography. A shoulder that bears mountains without trembling, as if stone itself had learned from you how to carry the weight of the world. A belly that sways between murmurs and the swelling of blueberries under moonlight — fertile, mysterious, lunar. Hips that trace maps of intrepid oceans, where every curve is a current, every sway a crossing. Thighs that erupt in fury and song — thunders that cradle the world, that herald storms and rebirths.

But there are hands. Hands that do not know how to read maps, that do not ask permission to enter. Hands that mistake conquest for right, that strike at “promised lands” as if the sacred were soil to be exploited. And they strike until the skin turns to dust, until the sacred is lost in scars, until the body — this territory of memory and myth — closes itself in silence.

And still, there is resistance. Because every scar is also a mark of endurance. Because your body, even wounded, still sings. Still pulses. Still refuses to be a colony.

And History, which sees all, whispers once more — now with reverence: there are territories that cannot be conquered. Only revered.

©️ Beatriz Esmer