We betray our mother tongues, embracing the languages of foreign nations that will never fully embrace us. In our pursuit to belong, we allow the strangeness to infiltrate our speech, twisting our words until our original tongues become a distant memory. The familiar cadences and rhythms of our native languages, once flowing effortlessly, now stumble and falter. We mold our voices to fit a new vernacular, seeking acceptance in a world that views us as outsiders. In this transformation, we lose pieces of ourselves, fragments of identity slipping away with every foreign word. Our mouths, once accustomed to the warm … Continue reading Mater Tongue

What do you want to know about what makes my soul tremble? You observe me, you pass judgment, attempting to mold me into a form, a substance that can resemble you, that can please and satisfy you, but I am already distant. Beyond. Far away! I harbor this ravenous and always hungry beast within me; she sniffs and devours moments and emotions with voracity, now purring, now ready to tear to pieces in an instant! I always live to the fullest of my desires, poised between the woman I am and the one who has yet to explode. I split … Continue reading What do you want to know?

I am the dancer and the Dance, moving to the rhythm of the universe. I am the Dreamer and the dream, creating worlds within worlds, infinite possibilities waiting to be explored. Buddha, Christ, Shiva, Tao, all Orishas, all paths leading to the same destination. I am the Song the Brahman sings, the melody that echoes through the cosmos, a symphony of love and light. Some pray Om, Ah-Ham, Amen, their words a reflection of their journey. Others follow what they were programmed in, their beliefs a product of their environment. But in the end, words mean nothing, just passing waves … Continue reading Peace & Love

Dear Bia, As I reflect upon the passage of time, I find myself in the gentle embrace of old age. My physical form may show signs of wear, with leathery skin, white hair, and replaced teeth. My vision has grown blurry, and my memories have softened around the edges. Yet, despite these changes, I want you to know that I am still worthy, and I am still a woman. Within me, the desire to feel the warmth of someone’s hand in mine remains. I still laugh, and I still cry. I yearn to be seen as beautiful, respected, and listened … Continue reading Barueri, August 25, 1996

Love must know how to speak, using words that exist only in the “time of delicacy.” I promise to cherish you until love itself falls ill, ill… And because of this mysterious time, it is necessary to love carefully, with the eyes, with the ears, with the hand that gently touches, to avoid causing harm… while there is still time. In the fragile moments where love lives and breathes, we must tread gently, with a sensitivity that honors the delicate nature of our hearts. Each look, each whisper, each tender touch should be infused with care, as if navigating a … Continue reading About the Delicacy of Love

Há dias em que o Brasil parece acordar decidido a provar que não é um país, mas um roteiro escrito por algum roteirista genial e debochado. Não basta a política ser turbulenta, ela precisa ter timing, precisa ter ironia, precisa ter coincidência. Maria do Rosário acorda, abre a janela, respira fundo: é seu aniversário. Talvez pense em bolo, talvez em flores, talvez em mensagens de amigos. O que ela não imagina é que, lá no planalto central, o destino prepara uma surpresa digna de manchete: Jair Bolsonaro, o mesmo que um dia a insultou em público com palavras de baixo … Continue reading Crônica – O Mundo Dá Cambalhota

Who are you, joy? My words are not a toy for you to stir and extirpate from my heart, only to be cast upon the whims of fate. If you are but a ghost of joy and mirth, then surely your place is not here on this earthly plane. If you are an angel, which I find hard to believe, you wouldn’t need to flutter about, restless and unseen, around a marble stone, alone in your slumber and dreams. Who are you, joy? Are you a friend who whispers solace and warmth, or a mere toy that teases with fleeting … Continue reading Joy

Someone once said it is made of poetry and perfumes. But I am made entirely of flesh. Even my anger is flesh, my glances are flesh at the slaughterhouse. Every thought of mine is composed of liquefied flesh. Obscene flesh that beats revolutionary and pulses forbidden, like a tribute to pain. There is not a single feeling in me that is not flesh adrift…😔 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Even my pain is flesh…

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 … Continue reading Minas Gerais

I refuse to lend my voice to the chorus of war, to the relentless drumbeats of conflict that stain the very earth with the blood we all share. While you may take pride in your warriors, that is your prerogative, and I will not cast judgment upon you for it. Yet, I cannot bring myself to acknowledge these primitive methods of resolving disputes. Instead, I choose to offer my admiration and reverence to those who champion peace, who seek to mend the fractures of the world with compassion and understanding. The anguish befalling the Palestinians is a stain upon humanity, … Continue reading Peace …