(a monologue) Time—what a luxury for thosewho walk upright beneath golden façades,cradled by warmth,traced by plans,blessed with calendars thatmean tomorrow. But me?I live where clocks forget to tick.Where lamplight flickersonly to reveal the rats,not the hour.There are no seconds here—only heartbeatsthat grow quietbeneath each concrete dawn. They pass me in haste,clutching their scheduleslike scripture,offended by my presence—a blemish on their linear lives.I watch themslave to their devices,willing prisonersto the stopwatch’s tyranny. And still,I do not envy them.I am time unmeasured.I breathe outside the tick.I wake when the cold gnawsand sleep only when memory fades.In this silence,I am free—not honored,not safe,but … Continue reading No Time for Me

They asked what I could never live without, and I answered with silence—not because I had none,but because your name would’ve caught fire on my tongue. You are the thought I carry in a closed fist, the reason my hands tremble in prayers I pretend aren’t meant for anyone.I speak in riddles so no one seesthat every metaphor is a door leading back to you. ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading 2011

The rooms of the house know what the heart cannot always name. They hold the weight of feeling, arranging themselves in quiet agreement with what aches, what lingers, what shelters. Sadness expands, pressing against the walls, placing the ones we love on the far side of the house, out of reach. We speak, but the distance swallows our words. Fear is small. It hides under the table, curled up in the dim light, waiting for the storm to pass. It listens to footsteps above, the hush of voices, the creak of uncertainty. Loneliness takes the corners, the empty spaces where … Continue reading Emotions & Spaces

Je suis lié, feuille après feuille. Des mains humaines m’ont façonné dans le silence de la nuit, bien avant que l’électricité et les automobiles ne soient imaginées. Sang, sueur et patience ont marqué ma naissance. Je suis le dernier noir de charbon, et pourtant la flamme même de la bougie qui éclairait mon créateur pourrait me engloutir. Je suis une création, une chose infime. Des doigts ont effleuré mes lignes, me transmettant de père en enfant, d’amant en amant, d’inconnu à inconnu. Maintenant, je suis là—cette présence immédiate, nichée parmi des piles de bois grouillant de lépismes. Je suis là, … Continue reading Mon âme de papier

Há uma linguagem demasiado profunda para que meras palavras possam capturá-la. É nesse espaço sagrado que “amor”, “paixão” e “êxtase” residem—não como meras expressões que caem dos lábios como folhas de outono, mas como forças titânicas que moldam os contornos da nossa própria essência. O amor, esse escultor eterno, vai lapidando nossas defesas, revelando a escultura luminosa que há dentro de nós. É uma melodia silenciosa cuja ressonância pode derrubar muros e erguer pontes para margens inalcançáveis. A paixão, a ardente pintora, cobre nossa tela com matizes tão vibrantes que se gravam na memória, incendiando nossos desejos e alimentando nossos … Continue reading Sentimentos

Les 13 commandements de la vie : le plus grand handicap, c’est la peur, le plus beau jour, c’est aujourd’hui, la chose la plus facile, c’est de se tromper, la plus grande erreur, c’est d’abandonner, le plus grand défaut, c’est l’égoïsme, la plus grande distraction, c’est le travail, la pire faillite, c’est le découragement, les meilleurs professeurs, ce sont les enfants, le plus grand besoin, c’est le bon sens, le sentiment le plus bas, c’est la trahison, le plus beau présent, c’est le pardon, la plus grande connaissance, c’est celle de soi, la plus belle chose au monde : c’est … Continue reading Les 13 commandements de la vie :

I offer no excuses, no explanations. I am far too tired to make the effort …And yet the poems, the sequences of words keep coming, too fast to be finessed well, a tumble of words and thoughts, and I am unused to this creative wellspring, not having seen its likes in years, decades, and I wonder why, why now, why when I want to gave up on the poems…Anyway, I wrote a poem another day, and once again, I’m sharing, even though it is rough, because the need to put this out here is stronger than my need to hide, … Continue reading Soup

Les mains qui aident portent une lumière que la prière seule ne saurait allumer. Elles se tendent, accueillent, pansent sans attendre d’écho céleste. Dans leur simple mouvement, il y a la foi la plus tangible—celle qui se mesure à la douceur d’un geste, à la chaleur d’une paume offerte sans raison autre que l’humanité. Car les prières montent, mais les mains bâtissent. Elles réparent, apaisent, soutiennent là où les mots se heurtent au silence. Dans chaque toucher, il y a une forme sacrée d’attention, un murmure discret qui rappelle que ce monde n’a jamais été fait pour être traversé seul. … Continue reading Les Mains

I am a details person—attuned to small moments, gliding light, the gentle clink of tinkering spoons. Yet, I am also one to be overtaken by the weight and anxieties of the human heart, both my own and those that press in around me. It is easy to succumb to these surges of feeling, to lose all sense of placement and perspective. You should lose your place, sometimes. But the heart is made of intricate chambers. Other times, all you need is to pull up a quiet chair and listen—to the workings rather than the work itself. To remember that we … Continue reading Details —