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

O coração, esse sótão cheio de guardados, não quer saber de baús pesados. Ele gosta é das coisinhas de nada: um “eu te amo” dito baixinho, quase sem querer, que fica flutuando no escuro do quarto como um grilo que insiste em cantar. São esses tesouros de bolso — o jeito de pegar na mão, o riso que faz cócegas na alma — que a gente leva na mudança definitiva. O resto? O resto é excesso de bagagem. A bondade não precisa de trombetas. Ela é como uma manta de lã velha num dia de geada: simples, quentinha e silenciosa. … Continue reading As Coisinhas do Nada

Even if you exhaust the commas, even if you strike the finality of a period or flee from the dizzying abyss of the ellipsis—it matters little. The rhythm of life is not yours to govern; it has its own pulse, a subterranean beat that does not ask for your consent. Sooner or later, love arrives. But it does not knock. It is impolite. It is a bold intruder that enters the room of your existence while you are still undressing your soul, catching you in that shameful, naked silence. It arrives without the courtesy of a warning. It is a … Continue reading The Intruder of the Self

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea, seeking solace in the open arms of the boundless ocean. Their journey, a testament to patience and perseverance, mirrors the silent yearning of a heart in search of its haven. As they weave through valleys and meander through fields, their waters whisper a longing melody, a soft, continuous plea. “Wait for me, wait for me,” they sigh, their currents echoing the deep desire to unite with the vast expanse that promises understanding and peace. In their solitary trek, they carry fragments of landscapes traversed, stories of distant places, and the essence … Continue reading Wait for me…

In the echoing halls of memory, the rapturous calls of a wild piano fill the air, each note a haunting reminder of a dance long forgotten. Savage and unyielding, the music refuses to let me move to the rhythm of humanity’s song. The passages scrawled upon the castle walls have etched a dirge into my heart, a lament for what once was and can never be again. Your memory is carried on the wind, whispers of a past that haunt my every step. I listen as the notes unravel, soft and tragic, flowing freely like an unfettered flag in the … Continue reading Tell me

It is not, truly, the descent—that tired, theatrical relinquishing of the sun—nor the facile promise of the next day’s glare that hushes the quivering, low-toned animal that is my insecurity when the darkness takes hold. No. It is the moon. Always the moon. A sphere suspended—a brilliant, horrifying forgiveness—glowing with a detachment that is the only true salvation. Thank God the stars, those pinpricks of icy indifference, possess no faculty of judgment. They do not register the trivial, feverish evils we manage beneath their vast and ignorant names; they do not see. There is nothing, you must understand, so agonizingly … Continue reading The Suspension of Self