Era fim de tarde no sertão, quando o sol se deitava com preguiça por trás das coxilhas, tingindo o céu de um rosa que parecia ter sido soprado por Deus. Dona Mariinha, sentada na cadeira de palha, fazia cafuné no cabelo branco de seu Zé, que cochilava com a cabeça encostada em seu colo. A mão dela, sabida de anos e silêncios, ia desenhando caminhos no couro cabeludo dele como quem escreve cartas que não precisam de papel. “Cafuné é coisa de alma,” dizia ela, sem levantar a voz, como quem conversa com o tempo. “Tem que saber onde toca, … Continue reading Crônica: O Cafuné e o Fogo

On page 55 of an ordinary book lies a phrase that doesn’t shout, but echoes: “Avoiding unnecessary wars is also a victory.” There are no characters, no elaborate setting—just a bare truth, almost shy, revealing itself as if it doesn’t want attention, yet changes everything. We live in times when victory is measured by visible achievements: medals, trophies, promotions, likes. The world teaches us to fight, to compete, to win. But there’s a kind of victory that doesn’t make headlines, that earns no applause. It happens when someone chooses silence over a sharp reply. When a wounded heart decides not … Continue reading Chronicle: The Silent Victory

If they ask you to love in whispers when your heart beats like thunder, they are not your match.If they demand a symphony when your love is a gentle hum, they are not your home.Your love is not clay to be shaped by someone else’s hands.It is iron—forged in fire, resilient and true—crafted to reflect your spirit, not their expectations.Let it be loud. Let it be soft. Let it be yours. ❤️🙏 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading If They Ask …

She was born wild and curious, a spirit untamed by the confines of ordinary life. Her eyes sparkled with the light of a thousand stars, each one a testament to her boundless curiosity. A cage is no place for someone like that, someone who dances with the wind and sings with the rain. “I play with the fire of my own truth,” she told me, her voice a melody of conviction and passion. “I will burn for the things I love.” And in that moment, I saw her for what she truly was: a blazing comet, streaking across the sky, … Continue reading Born Wild

Smoke still sits on the battlefieldBut I hear music in the airOr is that the ringing in my earsMaybe I’m to shell shocked to careI’ve lost my bearings, I’m not sure whereTo go, or turn, or stop, or stare Looks like rubble around me I told myself I’d never be weak enough to fightYet here I am, sprawled out in a meadowStained with surprise and subtle sorrowNot a mark on me butBewilderment slips out of me like bloodDazed and confused as to exactly what happened Something tells me this isn’t the end Somewhere a lone sentinel standsSeeking my heart with … Continue reading Tears

May I not follow those who turn aside but let no one go astray following my footsteps. In the quiet moments of reflection, I find myself yearning for a path that is true and unwavering. The world is filled with distractions, and the rush to arrive often blinds us to the beauty that lies along the way. May the rush to arrive not distract me from the joy of seeing the simple flowers that are at the side of the road. Each petal, each bloom, a testament to the quiet wonders that life offers. I wish to walk gently, not … Continue reading Reflections on the Path

When did I become so old? The question lingers in the air, a whisper of time’s relentless march. The woman staring back at me from the mirror is a stranger, her eyes a reflection of years gone by, yet her spirit remains untouched by the passage of time. Clearly, the woman I see in the mirror is not the woman held prisoner inside this broken body. She is vibrant, her heart beating with the rhythm of dreams yet to be fulfilled. Her laughter echoes with the innocence of youth, a melody that defies the lines etched upon her face. Her … Continue reading Time

I am the poet of the Body, and I am the poet of the Soul.The pleasures of heaven dwell within me, and the torments of hell echo through me.The former I graft onto my being, nurturing these joys until they bloom and multiply.They are the light that guides my steps, the warmth that sustains my spirit. Yet the pains of hell are not merely endured—they are transmuted.I take these agonies, these crucibles of existence, and render them into a new language.Through poetic alchemy, suffering finds its voice—refined into something profound and enduring.In this transformation, I uncover strength, resilience, and a … Continue reading The Poet’s Duality

Era uma manhã qualquer, dessas em que o café esfria antes do primeiro gole e o relógio parece zombar da pressa. Dona Lúcia, viúva há mais de uma década, observava pela janela o ipê amarelo da praça. Todo ano, ele florescia como se nada tivesse mudado. Mas tudo mudara. Ela costumava dizer que a vida era feita de pequenas posses: o marido, os filhos, a casa, o jardim. Cada coisa com seu lugar, cada afeto com seu nome. Até que, um por um, os pertences da alma começaram a escorregar pelos dedos. O marido se foi, os filhos se mudaram, … Continue reading Crônica: O Terreno Invisível

Il y a des instants dans la vie où l’on se surprend à courir après des choses éphémères — des rêves brillants mais fuyants, des regards qui ne se posent jamais, des succès qui glissent entre les doigts. On s’épuise à vouloir attraper ce qui ne veut pas être saisi, comme ces papillons qui dansent dans l’air, insaisissables et légers. Mais un jour, au détour d’une pensée calme, une vérité douce s’impose : et si le secret n’était pas dans la chasse, mais dans l’accueil ? Et si, au lieu de courir, on s’arrêtait pour planter, pour nourrir, pour créer … Continue reading 🌿 Le Jardin Intérieur