I fell in love looking at what my eyes could reach
as the day set, my body vibrated at the sight of so
many mixed colors in that sunset that, in its absence as it goes down,
vibrates what has lost its color inside here. Enchantment.
What can be considered fallible in the face of a tiny love?
What in you is so small that it comes to the surface?
Are they pauses in everyday life, moments of enchantment?
Or the year that inverts and converts with every
mismatch of time that insists on setting?
The habit of creating, like someone painting the wind,
the art born without a sketch,
life, this scene that has no rehearsal,
where chance, without a script,
is a great discovery of enchantment.
From the hands that shape, without knowing what will come,
like nature does, in no rush to arrive.
But then, where do you, little creature, wish to go?
And time, the wise guardian of the journey,
slowly reveals where we want to arrive.
Wisdom is born from those who know how to wait,
like the Baobab, which, without haste, will take root.
Each step, an echo of destiny taking shape,
when, in its legend, it decides to respect its time,
for chance only shows itself to those who know how to wait.
The enchantment of waiting has been difficult for
what I don’t know to expect. Waiting in the contemporary
world is scarce, where few can truly pause, for their survival must reign.
Haste shapes lives, divides the masses.
Who has the luxury of time to reflect?
While some run, others merely survive,
classes that separate the right to feel.
Time, which for some slips away and for others revives.
The art of waiting is a distant privilege,
for those who struggle in the moment,
not knowing if more will come.
While the top gazes at the constant horizon,
the base only sees the now that slips away among the sighs.
No fleeing, facing the void that, without a name,
touches us all as humans. Longing, the rush,
the immensity makes us lose our footing, being our great question.
But the poets, in their search for salvation,
cultivate satisfaction like those who sow peace.
But what could the great question be, little human,
if, in an arid soil of war and competition,
Do they know that the verse can be voracious?
While the world rushes, poets plant in vain,
with words that resist the haste of the nation.
In the stillness, they find the act of creating,
a silent revolution against the chaos that seeks to dominate.
And so I tell them that I will not submit to domination.
For it is in freedom that the soul expands,
where longing reigns and dreams ignite.
To fight for it is to struggle for who we truly
are, against the current that tries to silence our will.
If the world oppresses and forces us to yield,
let poetry be the weapon so we never lose.
However, I must not be a hypocrite; after all,
in many moments, I need to lose
myself to find myself. That, too, is an enchantment.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.