Acordar é um ato de coragem ou de profunda desistência. Há manhãs que já nascem com o peso de uma derrota, um cansaço que não é do corpo, mas da alma que se reconhece pequena diante do som do despertador. É um gosto de ferro, um silêncio que nos aponta o erro antes mesmo de tentarmos o acerto. Outros dias, porém, trazem a vingança — uma revanche súbita que entra pelo quarto com o primeiro raio de sol, ferindo a escuridão e nos obrigando a existir com uma alegria quase violenta. Sinto que navegamos entre esses dois polos: o sabor … Continue reading O Instante da Xícara

In the heart of verdant whispers, where the great rivers flow,Dwells the soul of the forest, in the children’s eyes, it glows.With feet bare upon the earth, their laughter rings in tune,To the parrot’s vibrant chorus, ‘neath the watchful Amazon moon. Tiny hands, like leaves, reach out, to the sky so vast and blue,Grasping dreams of peace and harmony, in the morning’s dew.They dance with the spirits of the trees, in a silent, sacred ballet,Wearing crowns of orchids wild, in the break of day. Beaded bracelets jingle softly, anklets sing of ancient lore,Each step a story of the land, each … Continue reading To Little Eyes of the Forest

In your veins flows the Karipuna river, its waters whispering secrets of resilience. The Rio Jamary Karipunas, nearly lost to time, dance in your blood—their footsteps etched in the Guaporé drylands, a sacred map of survival. Your lineage, a mosaic of nations, defies borders. Portuguese winds from Ceará State kiss your cheeks, while Dutch echoes from Sergipe State linger in your laughter. Spanish reeds sway in the Pantanal breeze, and German oaks from Paraná State root deep within your spirit. Italian vines from Rio Grande do Sul State entwine your dreams. Yet, labels falter in capturing your essence. You are … Continue reading On Indigenous Peoples Day,

Dizem que beleza é o que se vê primeiro. Engano. Mentira mútua. A beleza não é o cabelo longo que o vento desorganiza, nem a perna magra que sustenta o corpo sem esforço, nem o dente perfeito que brilha como um anúncio vazio. Isso é apenas superfície, e eu — eu sempre tive medo do que é liso demais. A beleza é um susto. É o rosto de quem acabou de chorar e, de repente, descobre um sorriso, uma pequena fenda de luz num quarto escuro. É aquela cicatriz no joelho, herança de quando você caiu ainda menina e o … Continue reading O Insuportável Brilho do Ser

In poetry, when I come to drink from you, I am no longer myself. I have been deprived of the “me” that carries a name and a history. I am only the act of drinking. It is a hunger so pure it becomes transparent. Here, in this white space between letters, I say goodbye to my sorrows, not because they are gone, but because they have become too heavy to carry into the kingdom of words. I come to these sentences only to see you, though seeing is a kind of blindness when the light is this bright. The Anatomy … Continue reading The Thirst and the Mirror

I woke up dangerously poetic today.(Though, between us, I’ve been practicing this habit daily.)I am dying, yes—but with the elegance of a sunsetthat refuses to make a scene while slipping backstage.I am a poem written in invisible ink,and today’s verses? What are they?Just a handful of seeds playing tag with the breeze,homeless, barefoot, and utterly content.Will they land in the lap of a godor in the muddy ditch of entropy?The wind isn’t telling, and I’ve forgotten to ask.Who knows? You? Me?The Scarecrow?Let’s just say the answer is hidingunder the hat of a passerbywho is in far too much of a … Continue reading The Wind’s Ledger

It all matters. But not with the weight of gold; it matters with the weight of a breath that realizes it is breathing. It matters that a hand reaches out and extinguishes the lamp, plunging the room into the original darkness. It matters that someone listens to the repeated tale, not for the story, but for the vibration of the throat that needs to be heard. To wash the dishes is to touch the cold porcelain of existence; to play the game fairly is to acknowledge the silence of the abyss. There is a holiness in the wiped counter. A … Continue reading The Weight of the Minute

I look at myself, but who is this “I” that looks? I pass through the phases of my life as if walking through a house of mirrors, each reflection more distorted, more demanding than the last. There is a fatigue that is not of the muscles, but of the very soul—a heavy, silent dust that settles over my spirit.I am getting old. My skin is no longer a surface; it is a map, a topography of scars and creases, the marks of time written in a language I am only now learning to read. Every wrinkle is a word, every … Continue reading The Mirror is an Open Wound

Dizem que o tempo é dinheiro, mas essa é a maior mentira que o sistema nos contou para nos manter ocupados. O tempo não é moeda; o tempo é o tecido da vida. E, ultimamente, esse tecido parece estar puído, esgarçado por uma rotina que nos exige a onipresença de um deus e a resistência de uma máquina. Tratar a escala 6×1 apenas como uma métrica econômica é ignorar o seu impacto humano: ela é um ataque direto à dignidade do trabalhador. No cenário atual, vivemos em falta com o relógio, sacrificando nossa saúde e nossos afetos em uma tentativa … Continue reading O Terceiro Dia: O Resgate do Que é Humano

They say the world spins. I say it grinds. It is not the vertigo of a name whispered in the dark that keeps the stars from falling; it is something much heavier. More silent. You want someone? I know that hunger. It is a hollow ache in the stomach, a fire that does not warm but eats. To want until the soul is a peeled fruit, wet and stinging in the open air—that is not a miracle. It is a state of emergency. The Live Wire That longing—it is water electrified. A frenzied, microscopic riot. You reach out. You grab … Continue reading The Imprecision of the Spark