Before I began to write poetry, I dissected song lyrics like a curious surgeon. Each syllable, each note—my scalpel. I sought the marrow of meaning, the pulse beneath the melody. My red spiral notebook, a confessional, cradled their verses.
Milton Nascimento, Tom Jobim and Chico Buarque—maestros of language. Their words, like benevolent ghosts, whispered secrets across the pages. But oh, how they sat there, perched on the paper, their hearts masquerading as eyes. Big, bubbly letters, innocent as children, yet they knew not their own power.
I absorbed them, these syllables, these notes. They seeped under my skin, mingling with my blood. And then, the transformation began. As if their words were blades, they carved channels within me. My veins ached, a symphony of yearning. Each stanza, a blister rising to the surface.
Writing became more than ink on paper. It became sinew, muscle, bone. I bled metaphors, exhaled sonnets. The notebook, now a reliquary, held my metamorphosis. I was no longer a mere observer; I was the poem itself.
And so, I wrote—because their words had become my pulse, my rhythm. The ache was sweet, the blistering beautiful. I was no longer a vessel; I was the vessel’s song.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer
Beatriz Esmer 