I came to nurture your seed that fears the winters—the fears of tomorrow, born from the eyes. Not from unforeseen paths that could lead you astray, but from the failures of past mistakes and the inability to say goodbye. When we realize that the keys to our prison have always been in our pockets, this discovery can carry us into true new beginnings. Do not nourish the fears of repeating your dusty actions. You will learn that you can begin anew or be reborn without ever moving. The truth is a pathless land within each of us, where freedom is … Continue reading Love,

Talvez a verdade não esteja na vitória nem na queda, mas no intervalo. Os dias mais puros, os mais brutalmente reais, são aqueles que não pedem definições. São os dias que começam com o profumo del caffè. Aquele aroma que invade a casa não é apenas uma bebida; é o anúncio de que o mundo ainda está lá fora e eu, milagrosamente, estou aqui dentro. O café é o ponto de contato entre o meu mistério e a matéria. No vapor que sobe da xícara, eu me aceito. Não sou derrota, não sou triunfo. Sou apenas esse silêncio que bebe, … Continue reading O Profumo del Caffè

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