After the silence has settled, there comes a time to move. Not with the frantic pace of the desperate, but slowly, tracing the path back toward everything that was once torn away from us. We often believe that when something is taken—our time, our peace, our wilder selves—it vanishes into the ether. We assume the void it leaves is empty. But the heart has a long memory. Deep within the quiet, underwater chambers of the soul, those stolen things still resonate. They exist as a low, persistent hum—a submerged longing for the freedom we used to breathe and the dreams … Continue reading The Submerged Echo

Hoje me deu um desassossego… Essa mania que a gente tem de querer empurrar o tempo com a barriga, só para chegar logo ao “amanhã”. Uma pressa de ser gente grande, de carregar chaves pesadas no bolso e rugas de importância na testa. Tolice.Lembro-me das pernas curtas querendo dar passos de gigante. A gente espichava o pescoço para ver o que havia na prateleira de cima, sonhando com o corpo de mulher, com os filmes de censura proibida, com essa tal “liberdade” que, vista de perto, tem cara de cansaço. Depois, o destino prega a peça: passamos o resto dos … Continue reading O Relógio Enguiçado

No, I do not want to talk about love. To speak of it is to commit a small murder of the self. I prefer the neutrality of the mattress, the vast, white desert of the sheets where I have finally learned the geometry of my own solitude. The middle of the bed is a kingdom; the emptiness on either side is not a lack, but a presence I have come to inhabit. I have no use for the “once upon a time.” Memories are predators. They have a substance—a thick, suffocating weight—that threatens to displace the very air I breathe. … Continue reading The Silence of the Ribs

What is this thing? This hunger that is also a glass shard in the throat? To love, to be loved—it is a neutral necessity, as vital as the breathing I do without noticing. It is a fragility so heavy it crushes the chest. In the silence of the room, between one blink and the next, I feel this longing weaving itself into my pulse. It is not a feeling; it is a force. It is the prehistoric vibration of being human. I am looking for the core. Beyond the pretense, beyond the mask of the face, there is a raw … Continue reading The Essence of Humanity 

There are poems that paper cannot confide.Verses etched in the soul’s quiet places,Where the ink of life gently traces. Hidden in whispers, silent yet profound,In dreams where endless thoughts abound.They dance on the edge of breathless sighs,Beyond the reach of earthly eyes. These poems dwell in the rhythm of your heart,In the spaces that words cannot chart.They bloom with every beat and pause,A symphony of life’s hidden cause. Let them linger, wild and free,Unwritten, like the whispers of the sea.For the most beautiful poetry you’ll find,Lives within the chambers of your mind. ❤️🙏🏾 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading There are poems…

Love has this way of arriving like a misplaced object—quiet, insistent, a secret told to the stone in the middle of the road. It does not shout; it murmurs with the fatigue of someone who has traveled leagues just to say: “There is no reason for flight.” We are born small, a fragile seed under the weight of the world. But love—that stubborn plant—insists on breaking the pavement. It grows not into a flower for a vase, but into a gnarled, magnificent shadow that covers everything. The Invisible Geometry It is not always a spectacle. Often, love is: • The … Continue reading Love: A Secret in the Shadow

I see the solitary streams, the liquid veins of the continent, Coursing through the canyons and the silent, tall-grassed prairies, They do not hesitate! They march with a rhythmic, watery pulse, Seeking the salt, the vastness, the restless cradle of the Atlantic and Pacific, Toward the open arms—the wide, unmeasured, and democratic embrace of the Sea! O, hear the respiration of the currents! The rivers do not merely flow; they sigh with the weight of their traveling, They call out to the tides, across the distance and the foam: “Wait for me, O Mother! Wait for me, O infinite liquid … Continue reading The River’s Large Return

Não procure a poesia apenas nas estantes empoeiradas ou no grafite das calçadas esquecidas. Olhe para o mapa de veias que cruzam o dorso de suas mãos; ali corre um ritmo mais antigo que qualquer métrica grega. Sua carne é a estrofe que a vida insiste em escrever todos os dias. Cada cicatriz em sua pele é uma metáfora de superação, um verso que não rima, mas que sustenta a estrutura do poema. O suor que brilha na têmpora após o esforço é a tinta fresca de um soneto inacabado sobre a persistência. Não há separação entre o sopro e … Continue reading O Verbo Encarnado

Eu não nasci sendo essa que você vê, mulher de mansidões. O que eu era, antes, era pedra bruta, sem o saber do orvalho. Careceu que eu aprendesse com as flores — essas criaturinhas de Deus que suportam o chicote do céu sem perder o juízo da beleza. Aprendi o viver-sobreviver. Eu sou o desabrochar que se levanta do escombro, a pétala que se desdobra quando o caos se aquieta. Sou alquimia de ferro e de seda; uma força que brota do temporal, mas com uma doçura de graça que me tempera. Porque o real não está na saída nem … Continue reading O Florir-se das Tormentas