Poems in Portuguese

Writing has saved me in countless ways, from my adolescence to the phase I am living in now. Words were gifted to us, and it is a delight to use them as an expression of the purest art. When melancholy weighs on your heart, why not turn it all into a story of the bluest tone that exists? Writing has always been my refuge, and through it, I found a way to express and reflect on my experiences.

Since I was fifteen, I’ve been safeguarding personal texts that trace the intense contour of a lyrical self I created for myself.

For years now, I’ve embraced the practice of cloaking my emotions in metaphor and intricate language — a way to soften the storms inside me: in how I saw myself, how I felt, or how I came to perceive a household twisted by shadows, one that, for too long, made me ill. It still does. 

Writing, in and of itself, saved my life. Only words truly know the depths I’ve withstood through them. I keep raw, unfiltered texts, steeped in honest emotion and metaphors that often left me wondering: “What if I simply said what I feel, at last?” 

I’ve been living through solitary emotions, and words have become my closest confidants. Sharing this with the world is not easy. Living is a challenge — and so is being sensitive. 

The path I walk, filled with writings on nature, dreams, spiritual experiences, feelings, and people who hurt me, has become my lifeline. It has shielded me from depression. It has shown me that genuine joy can dwell in the smallest things.

I’m only 22. I’ve written an independent magazine. I am a junior designer at a beauty accessories company. I am a pianist. I listen to music the way one listens to prayer. I have dreams — quite literally, a head full of them. 

I carry within me emotional experiences that shook me years ago and still remain — demons I must keep facing. Writing is freedom. And my poems are the fountain from which it flows. 

“Words will guide you home.” 

Not to a house built of walls and windows, but to the true home — the one within. Your innermost comfort.

The following translations have been provided to Noon Miracle by the artist.

The False Hope

My feet intertwine with so many flowers, and ladybugs tickle my toes. The wind hovers above me, and the sun shines on me like never before. 

The sound of the jingling of chokers complements the beautiful esoteric song that plays endlessly, somewhere my eyes can no longer reach. 

My white dress, so light and unpretentious, dances to the howl of the wind that insists on calling me closer to this song. My eyes, how they burn, burn like blood, like rage, like salt. I fight against my lack of sight, perhaps I am going blind. Where did they all go? 

Vision weakens, I fight and run, I beg them to leave me in peace. Please, leave me in peace. I am innocent, I belong to this place. This is my place. 

The sun was already setting, and the song never stopped playing. The beautiful design of the edges of a lovely sunset stood in contrast to the clouds, which bore bizarre and intriguing shapes. 

What the sky could offer me was more than I could ever think… A beautiful moonlight and a planetary meeting. The joining of the lovely planets, with the singing of the stars. The indigo blue, the purplish hue, and the song of a lone nightingale. 

My voice had been silenced, I no longer had anything.

Then I admired, my eyes danced, following every detail that the perfection of my garden could bring. 

I said: I’ve always dreamed of paradise, so this must truly be it. Truly it must be, everything I ever dreamed of. 

The flowers, how beautiful my flowers were, the perfect blend of lilies of the valley, cherry-colored, with the fragrance of jasmine, caressed the soft waves of my hair, which had almost been graced with the color of the sun. 

My eyes had never been so wet, my body already trembling, and perhaps, I already felt that my encounter with the angels was near. 

"Truly this is my paradise, the dreamed paradise, where I always thought I would be happy, truly happy." 

Oh, angels of the Lord, come to me, grant my soul thy eternal rest.

Where I can sleep, and never tire. Where I can eat, and never be hungry again, where I’ll never again have to lack the love I never had. 

My head spun, my breath deepened, within its own soul. The heart beat louder than anyone had ever heard. 

It had always been there, after all, its place. 

The request was answered by the kind angels of heaven; they took the soul to a place more perfect than it had ever been before. It was there that she was meant to reside. She saw the beautiful sun up close, and all kinds of birds and flowers. 

And the sound of the harp resonated, like a deep breath upon her ribs, making her close her eyes, and finally, never waking again.

Rain in Shallow Depths 

I am like the rain that falls every day, spreading a bit of myself, dripping down, and the cycle returns, just as always. The clouds form, I fill with all my might, and here comes, with all its strength, a storm. 

I think how hard it is not to be solid, I am floating, I am liquid. But I don’t leave the same place. I think of the same things, almost always, and repeat what hurts me the most. I want a “her” to love me, a being. I wish I could be made anew, however that may be. Planted in soil, where I’d be desired, picked with real love, not knowing how I would be. Then, I’m raining again. I feel a confusion inside me that I can’t understand, why does it hurt so much, after all? Watching a “her” so loving, caring, understanding, and warm. That’s where I wanted to be. My cycle turns, and I say: They are not mine. My little petals tremble, wilt. My fruits sour, and I need to bloom again. 

My “her” is there, but I know she doesn’t want me. Because in her loving hands, I am the most hated in front of the others. She wanted me to come different, and she can’t love me. I, so weak, need to gather strength and say: Oh! Forgive me, please! For having hurt me. So that my “her” doesn’t ignore me forever. 

Then it’s raining again. And I feel hollow inside. Because everything seems to collapse, dry out, and come undone from the gentle axes. Everything ends, has an end, but I know this has a name: “life.” 

Suddenly—in my somewhat sick mind, when my “her” fights with me again, punishing me for being myself—I ran away. 

I went to visit her. But she wasn’t available for me, because none are. They are with their lovely flowers, and the sprouts of those they need to care for with all their love. I lie in her fragrant sunset, hoping another “her” will come, who can hug me, who will say she loves me more than the stars in the infinite sky. But she doesn’t exist. Yet I keep searching for her,

in them. 

An endless daydream, an excessive reverie, a sick anguish. I don’t have her, I don’t have him, I have only a “me.” Small and unprepared for the other “hers” and “thems” that aren’t mine. But I would love it if they were. Creating poems with real situations brings the rain to the window of truth, and to the eyes as well.

The Fire Amazon* 

Life so short, life forgotten 

Already so primitive, so vast. 

So lucid, so immediate. 

The life of the one I once lived 

In the one I will never live again. 

She will live, no. 

From the most beautiful dreams, the hope of going to paradise, seems to be one of the best. Father Christ will come to take us, but when will He come, when will He come? 

Do not be afraid, but how would I not be afraid? 

The life of the one I did not enjoy, did not love, and did not dream. 

The one I chained, hurt, and pushed ahead. 

Did not wait and did not ask for my permission, to do all that I didn’t want. Frustrated I remain, will I have time? 

Time that calls out, from every corner of the Earth, it calls. It calls. 

The vast forests groan, the animals weaken. 

They burn, burn everything. The blame is on them. The human being. Human. Without being. 

The great pain at the depth of the soul, physical, spiritual, mental. 

The heart of one who still sees, bleeds. 

The brain of one who is blind, devours itself. 

In the forest, it kills the innocent. 

Kills, in the forest, those who gave us life. Brazilian life, forgotten life.

They killed them, they killed them. It was them, the human beings. Without being. Human. 

Green, green that has already turned into blood. 

The warning sign, like the darkness of an empty void, there they are. 

Vision, only those who have vision, in the vastness, will see. 

Few are those who are. 

Love is rare, rare is Love. 

Deep in the waters, in the waters, treasure. 

*This poem was written when the Amazon was on fire on 2019. A large part of the forest was deforested, and is still recovering today. Countless animals were killed and lost their natural habitat. Smoke spread throughout Brazil.

To see more of Bruna's work, check out her website or her Instagram.