O prato chega.
Não há recusa — apenas silêncio.
Os olhos perguntam antes da boca responder.
A primeira mordida não é fome,
é coragem pequena.
Ao fundo, o cachorro late — hereux,
não porque soubesse o fim,
mas porque já sentia o começo.
Há coisas que o corpo entende
antes do pensamento alcançar.
A casa respira devagar,
o cheiro sobe no ar feito convite tímido.
Entre idas e vindas da dúvida,
não é a perfeição do prato que importa,
mas o que ele desperta.
Pois entre acertos e receitas exatas,
mais vale o sentir
do que qualquer trabalho bem feito.
E então se entende:
o momento não espera —
ele nasce quando alguém decide ir.
Levantar o garfo, atravessar o receio,
aceitar o encontro.
E assim, quase sem perceber,
o gosto acontece
como quem chega em casa sem dizer a que veio.
Inside the quiet folds of thought
Where silver signals once were caught,
A gentle river used to stream
Through corridors of light and dream.
A scaffold strong of tau once stood,
Holding highways firm and good,
Guiding whispers cell to cell
In patterns only minds can tell.
From APP’s familiar seam
A fragment split: a fleeting gleam,
Harmless born in daily art,
A byproduct of the beating heart.
But time, with patient, silent hand,
Let fragments linger, softly planned;
They clustered close in twilight’s deep,
Like dust that gathers while we sleep.
The night once washed the brain in tide,
Cleared the remnants set aside;
Yet slower flowed the cleansing stream,
And shadows thickened in the dream.
Highways bent and signals strayed,
Scaffolds loosened, lines decayed;
Not with thunder, not with flame —
But quiet loss without a name.
Still — somewhere warm beneath the fall,
An echo answers to a call;
A hand remembered, though not why,
A feeling none can nullify.
For even when the maps erase
And time dissolves the printed face,
A pulse remains, a subtle art —
The oldest memory: the heart.
I stand first guard at my own gate,
For a hollow cup can’t share its weight.
I tend my fire, I breathe, I see—
If I fall apart, none lean on me.
Next, my father—roots and ground,
The steady pulse, the first safe sound.
I hold him close, repay the hand
That once taught me how to stand.
Then siblings follow, blood and thread,
Shared pasts, the tears we never said.
Not first, not last, but bound by name,
Different paths, the same old flame.
And friends come after, chosen kin,
Who walk beside me, not within.
I give them light I can afford,
Not borrowed strength, not broken cord.
Care moves outward, ring by ring,
Like water when you drop a stone in.
The core held firm, the rest can grow—
That’s how I love, and that’s my flow.