Nas tramas invisíveis da memória, pulsa ainda o nome de Jovelina — mulher de fé incandescente e sabedoria sem diploma, mas com doutorado na escola dura da vida. Ela faria hoje 96 anos, e mesmo o tempo, com seus passos firmes, não apaga o eco da sua presença. Criada entre a simplicidade e o sagrado, ela carregava uma cruz invisível, feita não de madeira, mas de pobreza e descaso, moldada pelas mãos da luta diária. Cada ruga em seu rosto era uma linha escrita por Deus, cada gesto seu, uma oração viva. Católica fervorosa, rezava com o coração inteiro — … Continue reading Com carinho para Dona Jovelina

My feed is flooded with cries for help from friends in Gaza. “We are starving,” they write—not as a metaphor, but as a heartbreaking truth. There’s no food. People are collapsing on the streets from sheer exhaustion and hunger. One post shattered me: a father saying he felt relieved his young daughter had been martyred last year—because at least she was spared the slow agony of starvation. I can’t stop thinking about that. This is not just a humanitarian emergency. It’s a profound moral failure of the global community. Starvation is being used as a weapon, and somehow, the world … Continue reading Gaza

By Beatriz Esmer There are two discoveries that have stayed with me — not like lessons learned in school, but more like truths whispered late at night, when the world is quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat. The first came nestled in someone else’s chest. It was the sound of life outside my own, pulsing beside me, like putting a shell to your ear and hearing the sea. Not a recording, not a metaphor — the actual ocean. A roar that didn’t ask for attention, only reminded me it was there. Shared presence. Human closeness. A rhythm not mine, … Continue reading Nakedness

Death has no scheduled hour, nor does it bow before illustrious surnames or generous bank accounts. It arrives without asking, crosses doors never opened for anyone, and takes a seat at the table uninvited. Death is democratic, cruelly fair—and perhaps that’s why it disturbs us so deeply. Yesterday, reading about Preta Gil’s passing, I felt that familiar knot in my throat. It wasn’t just sadness for the artist, for the woman who faced cancer with courage and transparency. It was the discomfort of realizing, once again, that life is a fleeting breath—and that even in the face of this truth, … Continue reading Chronicle: Death Has No Favorites

Deep in our hearts, there exist sorrows so profound that they defy the confines of language. These are the sadnesses that linger in the shadows, too vast and intricate to be captured by mere words. They swell and surge, like waves crashing against the fragile shores of our souls, leaving us adrift in a sea of unspoken emotions. The alphabet, with its 26 letters, feels woefully inadequate in the face of such overwhelming feeling. Each letter, each word, seems to fall short, unable to encompass the depth of our pain. We reach for poetry, for the solace of verse, but … Continue reading The Unwritten Sorrows

There are poems that walk with their heads down, as if guilty for existing. They disguise themselves in gentle metaphors, skipping over truths with the lightness of someone afraid to trip on reality. Those don’t interest me. They’ve never spoken anything beyond silence. I prefer the ones that chew the world with sharp teeth — that explode in the mouth with the taste of ripe fruit, that grind between the molars, that leave a mark. Good poems don’t hide. They stretch out in the heat of the day, spread across the page like languid cats, purring certainties. These are verses … Continue reading The Poems That Bite

“Eu menti!” — foi com essa frase que comecei a noite. Ela piscava em neon imaginário na sala apertada do meu apartamento alugado, ecoando entre as prateleiras de livros e a planta que insiste em morrer devagar. Ele olhou pra mim, com aquela cara de quem achava que a vida era um roteiro da Netflix. Pena que nem isso eu tinha. “Não tenho Netflix, nem vamos transar”, completei, como quem arranca um band-aid emocional. A expressão dele misturava confusão com um certo recalculando rota. Acho que pensava que eu funcionava como uma série: três episódios de conversa e no quarto, … Continue reading Crônica: Capitalismo, Sofá e Honestidades Indigestas

That why that gets you up early in the morning. That why that has you staying up late. That why that keeps you going. If your why does not fill you up with a mixture of emotions, bringing with it both happiness and tears, laughter and anxiousness, eagerness and worries,then it is not your why. Keep searching until you find it. Sarava! ❤️ Continue reading You must find your why!

Let them rush like a staccato rhythm — fingertips grazing your skin — each phrase a subtle passage, crafted to seduce your mind. May they crescendo in a tempest so fierce, they pierce your soul with their beguiling sound, lifting you to a stunning climax of beauty. May my words be of the elements… Let them shine across your body like brilliant morning light.Let them swirl around you like a pyre of wind, wrapping you in the dry electricity of pleasure. Let them crash upon your thirsty body like a storm of warm rain, washing the need from your very … Continue reading May my words…

Before you know it, the clock strikes 3 a.m., and the years have quietly woven themselves into the tapestry of your life—now 80 years in the making. The memories of youthful dreams and the innocence of a ten-year-old heart have faded into the mist of time. The vibrant thoughts of your twenties, once vivid and brimming with promise, have softened into distant echoes, barely discernible in the quiet of night. Life, in its relentless pace, has slipped through your fingers like grains of sand. Each moment, once so tangible, now feels like a fleeting whisper in the wind. The laughter, … Continue reading Reflections on Time