In the grand theater of existence, the length of our performance remains a mystery. Yet, as the great poet Rumi has beautifully articulated, it is not the duration of our lives that inspires, but the intensity with which we live them. Each breath we draw, each moment we experience, is a testament to our resilience, our determination to simply exist. We are warriors in the arena of life, armed with courage and fortified by the will to survive. We fight, not against an external adversary, but against the very fragility of our existence. Our battles may be silent, our victories … Continue reading Rumi

I have witnessed the dance of darkness and light, the interplay of hope and despair. I have seen the face of humanity, etched with the lines of both cruelty and kindness. I have seen the monstrous acts that one human can inflict upon another, the injustices that make the soul shudder, and the heart weep. I have seen the children, innocent and pure, caught in the crossfire of adult wars, their laughter silenced, their smiles faded. I have seen their small bodies, once full of life and joy, now lifeless and cold. And I have wondered, why? Why does the … Continue reading Why?

Não espere de mim o inventário das sombras, nem o rastro amargo das lutas que travo com o meu próprio pensar. Deixo as crises de identidade guardadas no fundo da mala, junto com o desejo de sumir, pois o que me move agora é o gesto de entrega. O que coloco em suas mãos é a minha simplicidade, uma leveza com afeto, feita de propósito para não assustar o seu caminhar. Se há dualidade em mim, ou se as dúvidas sobre o mundo me assaltam a alma, eu as silencio. Prefiro lhe dar a flor, e não o espinho que … Continue reading O Alento das Horas Claras

Emergimos. É uma palavra líquida, não acha? Alguns de nós brotam das circunstâncias mais dolorosas como se estivéssemos finalmente nascendo de nós mesmos, com essa compreensão profunda e quase insuportável de quem somos. E, pior, ou melhor, do que queremos. O que chamam de erro? Eu chamo de fome. Nossos erros foram necessários; tinham a urgência do hálito. Nossas frustrações, os fracassos que nos deixaram secos, as tentativas hesitantes de um crescimento que mais parecia um tropeço no escuro… tudo isso era a matéria-prima. O progresso não é uma linha reta, é um estado de ser que se desdobra, às … Continue reading A Matéria Necessária

It is a sudden, sharp vertigo, the kind that makes the kitchen floor feel like the edge of an abyss. I have been holding my breath, waiting for the arrival. I thought: if I reach that point, if I grasp that achievement, the lock will click. I imagined happiness as a heavy gold coin I could finally pocket and keep forever. But happiness is not a monument. It is not a house one builds and then inhabits with folded arms. It is a multifaceted, elusive vibration, a thing that exists only in the flickering of its own disappearance. I see … Continue reading The Pulsing Entropy of Being

It is a duration that does not exist, yet it weighs. I look at the clock and see not time, but the white, vibrating marrow of silence. Can one touch the thing-in-itself before the hand moves? To seek the essence is a fatigue, a hunger that does not want to be satisfied. Life. I say the word and it escapes me like a secret I have forgotten. It is the dog, with its wet nose and its terrifyingly pure gaze; it is the giant squid, heavy and cold in the abyss where no eye sees; it is the goldfish, a … Continue reading Thirty minutes…

My dear, Who has whispered such untruths into your ear? In what cold, sterile corner did they find the breath to say your skin was anything less than beautiful? To speak is often to err; to listen to the wrong voice is to lose one’s own pulse. Look upon the earth. Not the surface that men walk upon, but the primordial, teeming depth. See yourself there. You are the color of the fertile ground, that dark, humid silence from which all flowers are forced to spring, almost painfully, into the light. It is a mystery of hunger and satiation. In … Continue reading The Silent Birth of the Earth

Sometimes, the poems build a home for themselves. They settle quietly in the kitchen of our bellies or take a seat in the doorway of our throats, dangling their legs like children in the sun. But other times, these poems aren’t such polite guests. They spread through the blood like a slow, rhythmic fever, a beautiful disease that refuses to be cured by any medicine found in a pharmacy. They sit there, heavy and expectant, waiting for a passerby to stop, to hold their trembling hands, and to examine the strange pulse of a living thing. Because every poem is … Continue reading The Guest Who Forgot to Leave

I carry this affection like a too-large clock ticking inside a small room, an urgency that rattles the windows and keeps the neighbors awake. It is a heavy, hurried thing, this love of mine. And yet, when I sit to trap it in a melody for you, the ink turns shy. I look at the staff and the scales, and I realize I cannot compose a single note that wouldn’t make the nightingale tilt its head in pity. My verses are merely sparrows hopping on a cold sidewalk, while your grace demands a sky I do not own. It is … Continue reading The Nightingale’s Pardon

“Me dê noticia de você, eu gosto um pouco de chorar, a gente quase não se vê, me deu vontade de lembrar. Me leve um pouco com você, eu gosto de qualquer lugar, a gente pode se entender e não saber o que falar. Seria um acontecimento, mas lógico que você some, no dia em que o seu pensamento me chamou; eu chamo o seu apartamento, não mora ninguém com esse nome, que linda a cantiga do vento; já passou. A gente quase não se vê, eu só queria me lembrar, me dê noticia de você, me deu vontade de … Continue reading Buarque-se!