She wasn’t born under a poetic star, nor did she wear her heart like a fragile glass slipper. No, Helena walked through life with steady feet and quiet wonder, chasing not fantasy but a truth so immense it could tilt the heavens. “I suppose I always wanted what Dante Alighieri spoke of,” she once confessed—not with longing, but with clarity. “L’amore che muove il sole e l’altre stelle.” The love that moves the sun and the other stars. Not the kind found in gilded novels or sung beneath balconies, but something ancient. Something cosmic. Something strong enough to tremble the … Continue reading Chronicle: The Orbit of Helena

And if I loved you one day, it might begin quietly—like a whisper born in the wind that forgot its way. A love small and calm, tiny and light, tiptoeing through the alleys where shadows play, losing itself in the gentle bend of a river that doesn’t mind the detour. It would stretch out, spill freely into the sea, asking nothing, demanding less, just moving—just being. In such a love, would your fingers know to find my hair, tangled in the breeze? Could your hands trace the mystery beneath a dress, not with possession but with awe? Would your voice, … Continue reading Chronicle: If I Loved You One Day

Sir, have I invited you in?No lantern lit, no welcome whispered—yet there you were, gliding effortlessly into my bloodstream, an interloper cloaked in longing. My breath betrayed me, drunk on the perfume of your intentions, tasting the edges of danger with every inhalation. It wasn’t permission. It was surrender. I never cracked open my chest. It broke on its own.No scalpel, no consent—just the brutal revelation of every ache I’d buried. My bones whispered secrets you hadn’t earned, yet you listened with that wicked smile, the one that grazed my threshold like flame to parchment. Did I invite you in, … Continue reading The Inhalation

Nas tramas invisíveis da memória, pulsa ainda o nome de Jovelina — mulher de fé incandescente e sabedoria sem diploma, mas com doutorado na escola dura da vida. Ela faria hoje 96 anos, e mesmo o tempo, com seus passos firmes, não apaga o eco da sua presença. Criada entre a simplicidade e o sagrado, ela carregava uma cruz invisível, feita não de madeira, mas de pobreza e descaso, moldada pelas mãos da luta diária. Cada ruga em seu rosto era uma linha escrita por Deus, cada gesto seu, uma oração viva. Católica fervorosa, rezava com o coração inteiro — … Continue reading Com carinho para Dona Jovelina

My feed is flooded with cries for help from friends in Gaza. “We are starving,” they write—not as a metaphor, but as a heartbreaking truth. There’s no food. People are collapsing on the streets from sheer exhaustion and hunger. One post shattered me: a father saying he felt relieved his young daughter had been martyred last year—because at least she was spared the slow agony of starvation. I can’t stop thinking about that. This is not just a humanitarian emergency. It’s a profound moral failure of the global community. Starvation is being used as a weapon, and somehow, the world … Continue reading Gaza

By Beatriz Esmer There are two discoveries that have stayed with me — not like lessons learned in school, but more like truths whispered late at night, when the world is quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat. The first came nestled in someone else’s chest. It was the sound of life outside my own, pulsing beside me, like putting a shell to your ear and hearing the sea. Not a recording, not a metaphor — the actual ocean. A roar that didn’t ask for attention, only reminded me it was there. Shared presence. Human closeness. A rhythm not mine, … Continue reading Nakedness

Death has no scheduled hour, nor does it bow before illustrious surnames or generous bank accounts. It arrives without asking, crosses doors never opened for anyone, and takes a seat at the table uninvited. Death is democratic, cruelly fair—and perhaps that’s why it disturbs us so deeply. Yesterday, reading about Preta Gil’s passing, I felt that familiar knot in my throat. It wasn’t just sadness for the artist, for the woman who faced cancer with courage and transparency. It was the discomfort of realizing, once again, that life is a fleeting breath—and that even in the face of this truth, … Continue reading Chronicle: Death Has No Favorites

Deep in our hearts, there exist sorrows so profound that they defy the confines of language. These are the sadnesses that linger in the shadows, too vast and intricate to be captured by mere words. They swell and surge, like waves crashing against the fragile shores of our souls, leaving us adrift in a sea of unspoken emotions. The alphabet, with its 26 letters, feels woefully inadequate in the face of such overwhelming feeling. Each letter, each word, seems to fall short, unable to encompass the depth of our pain. We reach for poetry, for the solace of verse, but … Continue reading The Unwritten Sorrows

There are poems that walk with their heads down, as if guilty for existing. They disguise themselves in gentle metaphors, skipping over truths with the lightness of someone afraid to trip on reality. Those don’t interest me. They’ve never spoken anything beyond silence. I prefer the ones that chew the world with sharp teeth — that explode in the mouth with the taste of ripe fruit, that grind between the molars, that leave a mark. Good poems don’t hide. They stretch out in the heat of the day, spread across the page like languid cats, purring certainties. These are verses … Continue reading The Poems That Bite

“Eu menti!” — foi com essa frase que comecei a noite. Ela piscava em neon imaginário na sala apertada do meu apartamento alugado, ecoando entre as prateleiras de livros e a planta que insiste em morrer devagar. Ele olhou pra mim, com aquela cara de quem achava que a vida era um roteiro da Netflix. Pena que nem isso eu tinha. “Não tenho Netflix, nem vamos transar”, completei, como quem arranca um band-aid emocional. A expressão dele misturava confusão com um certo recalculando rota. Acho que pensava que eu funcionava como uma série: três episódios de conversa e no quarto, … Continue reading Crônica: Capitalismo, Sofá e Honestidades Indigestas