Listen. Listen: I’ve been here long enough to know that the night sky is the color of my feelings and a soft reminder that I am still alive, that the next day is creeping up already, that it still holds promise and bitter-lipped hope. I’ve learnt now that between my fingers, there are little whispering spaces I reserve for someone I haven’t met yet — the same spaces found in the hollowed cavity of my chest, in between each inhale and exhale, and in between each word, each blink, each tap on the shoulder. Listen: I know now that underneath … Continue reading

You leave magnifying impressions on torn pages. You’d never climb on a star empty-handed. Such is your grace. You like word plays and you like poetry storms. And everything is in your head, everything; silence, misty days, a plenitude of distinctly colored autumn leaves, folk songs, ink pens, jazz, musical organs and old typewriters. You are walking up and down in front of old churches without entering; you love the purposeless, the aimlessness, the eternal. And you love to feel the atoms of the air and not merely the air itself as a whole, you worship each rain drop separately … Continue reading Impressions

I sought the trees of yesteryear, those ancient sentinels that once bore the weight of my dreams. But there, where their roots should have dug deep, I found only desolation—a barren field stretching to the horizon. The bluebirds, once melodious messengers, now sang mournful tunes, their notes lost in the emptiness. Perhaps the seasons had been unkind, or perhaps my own neglect had withered their boughs. I dipped my hands into the well of memories, hoping to revive their thirst, but the water had long evaporated, leaving only echoes. Yet hope, like a stubborn seed, nestled within me. I turned … Continue reading Echoes of Seasons

It was your eyes—their depths, their silent eloquence—that ensnared me. In their irises, I glimpsed my own reflection, a mirror of my very soul. Not your legs, not your hands, nor the curve of your lips held this enchantment. No, it was your eyes—the twin constellations that dissolved my melancholy, avenging an entire past where love had eluded me. Your gaze, a secret language, whispered of good days yet to unfold. It spoke of distant miracles, those sacred moments that lovers share in silence. And so, I remain mute, a silent witness, waiting to behold you, to love you. When … Continue reading Your Eyes

Tell meAs wildThe rapturous piano callsSavage, I can’t dance againTo this humanity songThe passages written along the castle wallsHave placed a dirge in my heartThy memory etched, thereupon the windI listen, the notes come unboundSoft and tragic, flowing like an unfettered flagThis thought; though my last, importantTo someone, somewhere yet far offWhat deed may I do to becomeHuman, once again in this skin… ❤ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Human song

I write little. Simple. Tiny words. But I write them as often as you pour water into a flowerpot. Eventually, my clumsy fingers will employ enough finesse to arrange a bouquet of words for you like lemonade and sugarplum or daffodil and ginger, but for now, all I can afford is this. A little water. A little thought. Tiny words to promise you that one day I’ll grow into something beautiful. One day… ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Little

How could I forget you my love?You helped me find myself when all was nothing but forgotten hopes.And I wished for you the same torment you gave me.Because with that self-fulfillment came the eyes that were brimmed with discovery of what had been done.And now I hate you.Hate that you gave me this freedom and made me wish it was gone.Hate that you allowed me to fall freely and then watched me fall straight on my back.Hate that I think of you every day and think of how you made me feel which ultimately is a feeling I will have … Continue reading Tormenter

Rain—the silent poet of the skies. It arrives unannounced, tapping on rooftops and windowpanes. Its language is fluid, a lexicon of whispers and sighs. Listen closely, and you’ll hear its verses—the rhythm of longing, the syntax of renewal. In the gray hours, when the world wears mist like a shroud, rain writes its first stanza. It paints the streets with liquid memories, washing away footprints and yesterday’s sorrows. Each droplet is a syllable—a soft punctuation in the story of now. On lonely afternoons, rain composes ballads. It weaves melodies from the pitter-patter on leaves, the staccato on sidewalks. The earth … Continue reading The Language of Rain

Clouds for stories.Trees swaying in the breeze.Home made dinner.A good bottle of red.Unspoken words.Silence, except for soft music.A little room to figure things out.Love is happening.Healing is happening.Beauty is happening.Because you don’t need to have it all be perfect, and healed,to share your light.We all have parts unfinished.That’s what keeps us moving,open,and real. Saravá …❤ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Sharing

If my heart stops beating, by and byIf my eyes don’t blink either closed or openTake me to the mountains, take me to the worldLet me hear birdsong unfiltered by pollutionLet me taste snow upon an unmoving lipLet me feel the breeze passed from aspen to pine to meLet me live in the wilds one last timeIf I rise again there is life still within meBe it one ounce, one grain, one cell,one molecule of life it will breed, it will growAnd I will be infused with life once moreIf I still do not move, bury me hereBut do not … Continue reading If