The mornings on the streets of Congonhas do Campo city seem to exhale the poetic scent of baroque history. Its stories, told in verse and prose, breathe and perspire their secrets in the corners of old houses. These houses tell us their fascinating stories, emerging like visions or mirages amid the dense morning fog, filled with essences and sounds that transport us back in time, blending the lives of the living with those of the dead. Anonymous historical figures mingle with contemporary ones, intertwining and planting fallacies and tales from their green mountains and heavenly waterfalls.

The wood-burning stove, with its fuming mouth preparing hearty breakfasts, takes us back to a fabulous and nebulous eighteenth-century city. It narrates the songs of slaves toiling in their everyday lives, fulfilling their destiny under the lash of the white man’s greed for the gold of their lands. It is in the history, the flavor of coffee, the stone paths, the artwork of the people, and the deep richness of the brunette skins of those ordinary individuals.

When people ask me why I speak so passionately about the cities of Minas Gerais, I answer: I feel the scent of my memories, and they blend with the cities of Minas Gerais. They are under my skin, in my culture, a latent poetry that enlightens me and makes me live. I breathe the dawns of Minas Gerais. ❤️🥰

©️Beatriz Esmer