Pedro Peres

"In doubt, a flame" In the quiet of my longing, a silver thread begins to shine. Between the fear and falling open, I breathe once— and trace the line. Every echo that returns is a seed beneath my skin. The ground is soft, unsure, and shifting… but doubt is where hope lets itself in. In doubt, I find a flame— not loud, but true. It lights the path my heart already knew. Shadows press against my chest, wearing dreams that nearly tear. But doubt becomes a tender bridge that shows me what is there. And when the wind begins to hum of futures I can’t yet see, I look again into the mirror— and find the light in me. In doubt, I have a flame— not loud, but true. It lights the path my heart already knew. Rain begins to touch the air, on skin too long gone dry. Every drop, a whispered prayer where soft things learn to try. In doubt, I feel a flame— not fierce, but brave. And I walk its warmth out of the cave. _________________ #song #doubt #hope

"Na dúvida, a Luz" No silêncio onde me espero, um fio brando começa a acender. Entre o medo e o talvez, a alma, cansada, aprende a ceder. Cada eco que volta ao peito é uma pergunta a querer florir. Num chão sem nome ou mapa, encontro um motivo — ainda que frágil — para seguir. Na dúvida, há luz. Um sopro. Um passo. Um clarão a reluzir. As sombras dançam devagar, vestidas de sonhos que guardei. Mas é na dúvida que ouço a ponte viva que sempre neguei. O vento murmura baixinho: “o amanhã não desistiu de ti.” Olho fundo no espelho quieto — há um brilho que diz que sim. Na dúvida, há luz. Um caminho, mesmo que torto, a reluzir. Chove manso sobre o medo, lava devagar o pó do coração. Cada gota vem dizendo: há ternura na indecisão. Na dúvida, há luz. Não é grito — é lume a insistir. _________________ #cancao #duvida #esperanca

In doubt, a flame

In the quiet of my longing,
a silver thread begins to shine
Between the fear and falling open,
I breathe once—
and trace the line

Every echo that returns
is a seed beneath my skin
The ground is soft, unsure, and shifting…
but doubt
is where hope lets itself in

#song #doubt #hope

Madness taught her to stop.

Now she writes in the margins:
“never trust the ones
who’ve never been lost.”
Then crosses it out.
Then writes it again.

The page is no longer a page.
It’s a mirror.
It’s a scar.

3/3

Deep in her throat,
a laugh half-chewed.
Clarity weighs
like her mother’s dress on Sundays.

Madness offers her nothing.
Just an empty bench
at the back of the yard
where silence grows.

She remembers being happy
without knowing.
Sanity was a bulletin board
with arrows in all directions.

2/3

#WilliamGolding #LordOfTheFlies #poetry * a more intimate echo of the reader who no longer reads the book, but reads itself in its margins. _________________ Inner Margin She no longer reads. Traces the stains on the page with her finger. Doesn’t know if it’s blood, ketchup, or some earlier childhood. Deep in her throat, a laugh half-chewed. Clarity weighs like her mother’s dress on Sundays. Madness offers her nothing. Just an empty bench at the back of the yard where silence grows. She remembers being happy without knowing. Sanity was a bulletin board with arrows in all directions. Madness taught her to stop. Now she writes in the margins: “never trust the ones who’ve never been lost.” Then crosses it out. Then writes it again. The page is no longer a page. It’s a mirror. It’s a scar.

#WilliamGolding #ODeusDasMoscas #poesia * um eco mais íntimo da leitora que já não lê o livro, mas se lê a si mesma nas suas margens. _________________ Margem Interior Ela já não lê. Sublinha com o dedo as manchas da página. Não sabe se é sangue, molho de tomate ou outra infância. No fundo da garganta um riso mal mastigado. A lucidez pesa como o vestido da mãe nos domingos. A loucura não lhe promete nada. Só um banco vazio, no fundo do pátio, onde o silêncio cresce. Ela lembra-se de quando era feliz sem saber. Sanidade era um quadro de avisos com setas em todas as direções. A loucura ensinou-lhe a parar. Agora escreve nas margens: “não confiar em quem nunca se perdeu.” Depois risca. Depois escreve outra vez. A página já não é página. É espelho. É cicatriz.

#WilliamGolding
#LordOfTheFlies
#poetry

* a more intimate echo of the reader who no longer reads the book,
but reads itself in its margins
__________

Inner Margin

She no longer reads.
Traces the stains on the page
with her finger
Doesn’t know if it’s blood,
ketchup,
or some earlier childhood

1/3

Sees the veil tear
and nobody says anything.

Sanity closes the windows
afraid of the wind.
Madness opens cracks
wherever truth leaks out.

She presses the book against her chest.
And wonders—
softly—
if this is what living means.

2/2

#WilliamGolding
#LordOfTheFlies
#poetry

Among Echoes She turns the pages of the island free of adults. Worse than madness: sanity. She says it again, like licking a wound. Twice. Three times. Sanity straightens its back. pretends to know. Madness bites— but meets your eyes. She is optimistic floating among shells and fear. Sees the veil tear and nobody says anything. Sanity closes the windows afraid of the wind. Madness opens cracks wherever truth leaks out. She presses the book against her chest. And wonders— softly— if this is what living means. _________________ #WilliamGolding #LordOfTheFlies #poetry

Entre Ecos Ela vira devagar as páginas da ilha sem adultos. Pior do que a loucura, diz — é a sanidade. Diz outra vez, como quem toca numa ferida antiga. Duas vezes. Três. Como se quisesse ter a certeza. A sanidade endireita as costas, faz que sabe. A loucura morde — mas não desvia o olhar. Ela acredita, mesmo quando flutua entre conchas partidas e um medo que cheira a sal. Vê o véu a rasgar-se, mas ninguém diz nada. Talvez já tenham desistido das palavras. A sanidade fecha as janelas, com medo do vento. A loucura abre pequenas fendas — e por elas escapa qualquer coisa que talvez seja verdade. Ela aperta o livro contra o peito, como quem segura um segredo. E pergunta — muito baixinho — se é isto que quer dizer estar viva. _________________ #WilliamGolding #ODeusDasMoscas #poesia

Among Echoes

She turns the pages
of the island free of adults.
Worse than madness:
sanity.

She says it again,
like licking a wound.
Twice.
Three times.

Sanity straightens its back.
pretends to know.
Madness bites—
but meets your eyes.

She is optimistic
floating among shells and fear.

1/2

@titularheroine.bsky.social
🙏🙏 CJ. Heartfelt thanks for those heartfelt words

As if to say: "I bring life, even when the world smells of endings."

Sometimes I think nature is obstinate like an old monk — still offering beauty even after Earth locked the doors.

white stork on trash hill —
hope continues to tweet through plastic waste
#tictac won't let go

The Stork on the Ruins I saw a stork perched on a garbage dump today. There she stood — white as a misplaced miracle, her eyes full of birth and death, comings and goings. No fields, no frogs, no open sky. Only torn bags, used diapers, ghosts of packages that never dissolve. Nevertheless, she remained. As if to say: "I bring life, even when the world smells of endings." Sometimes I think nature is obstinate like an old monk — still offering beauty even after Earth locked the doors. senryu: white stork on trash hill — hope continues to tweet through plastic waste #tictac won't let go #haibun #poetry _________________ A Cegonha nas Ruínas Hoje vi uma cegonha pousada num aterro. Lá estava ela — branca como um milagre extraviado, olhos carregados de nascimentos e despedidas, chegadas e partidas. Sem campos, sem rãs, sem céu aberto. Apenas sacos rasgados, fraldas usadas, fantasmas de pacotes que jamais se desfazem. Ainda assim, ela ficou. Como se dissesse: “Trago vida, mesmo quando o mundo exala fim.” senryu: cegonha branca no lixo — a esperança pia #tictac entre plásticos

The Stork on the Ruins

I saw a stork perched on a garbage dump today
There she stood— white as a misplaced miracle, her eyes full of birth and death, comings and goings

No fields, no frogs, no open sky
Only torn bags, used diapers, ghosts of packages that never dissolve

Nevertheless, she remained

@cazzk.bsky.social
once again 🤗🙏🙏 Cazz. Heartfelt thanks for reposting

@cazzk.bsky.social
🙏🙏 Cazz. Heartfelt thanks for reposting

#senryu #haiku #urgency mother of new life chooses diapers and coke cans #tictac we descend _________________ mãe da nova vida traz fraldas e latas velhas #tictac caímos

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#senryu #haiku #urgency

mother of new life
chooses diapers and coke cans
#tictac we descend
_________________

mãe da nova vida
traz fraldas e latas velhas
#tictac caímos

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@pierpaolo.bsky.social ancora una volta 🤗🙏🙏 Pier Paolo. Grazie di cuore per aver ripubblicato 🙂

@pierpaolo.bsky.social once again 🤗🙏🙏 Pier Paolo. Heartfelt thanks for reposting

@pierpaolo.bsky.social I have appreciated the kind gesture 🙏🙏

@zaynab71990.bsky.social Heartfelt thanks for reposting 🙏🙏

@pippaesque.bsky.social deep sorries for these so late response Pippa. Heartfelt thanks for reposting 💛🙏🙏💛

@anagha.bsky.social
@jangoeswriting.bsky.social
I have appreciated the kind gesture Anagha and Jan

@marcialynnpaul.bsky.social
@jangoeswriting.bsky.social
I have appreciated the kind gesture Marcía and Jan 🙏

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#senryu #quirkiness #excentricidade #vss365

mismatched socks parade —
neighbours nod without a word
#quirkiness

_________________

meias diferentes —
os vizinhos acenam
#excentricidade

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#tanka #quirkiness #haikufeels

rusted gate swings wide —
a garden of old umbrellas
hums in silent wind.
I hum back, a crooked tune,
rooted in #quirkiness
_________________

portão enferrujado —
jardim de chapéus partidos
canta sem vento.
assobio em tom torto,
eco de #excentricidade

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sussurro da lanterna —
inclino-me ao seu murmúrio
#excentricidade brilha

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#quirkiness #haibun #haikufeels

#quirkiness #haibun #vss365 #prompt I wandered the empty station at dusk, my pocket full of paper tsurus folded in secret. Each was a confession of my strange ways — how I count platform tiles, how I greet lanterns as if they might reply. The world felt vast and slightly tilted, like a poem misremembered in a dream. lantern’s soft whisper— I bow to its gentle hum #quirkiness glows _____________________________ Vaguei pela estação ao crepúsculo, com o bolso cheio de tsurus dobrados em segredo. Cada um era uma pequena confissão dos meus hábitos: contar as pedras do chão, saudar as lanternas como se falassem. O mundo parecia vasto e ligeiramente torto — como um poema mal recordado num sonho. sussurro da lanterna — inclino-me ao seu murmúrio #excentricidade brilha

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#haibun

Vaguei pela estação ao crepúsculo, com o bolso cheio de tsurus dobrados em segredo. Cada um era uma pequena confissão dos meus hábitos: contar as pedras do chão, saudar as lanternas como se falassem. O mundo parecia vasto e ligeiramente torto — como um poema mal recordado num sonho.

lantern’s soft whisper—
I bow to its gentle hum
#quirkiness glows

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#haibun

I wandered the empty station at dusk, my pocket full of paper tsurus folded in secret. Each was a confession of my strange ways — how I count platform tiles, how I greet lanterns as if they might reply. The world felt vast and slightly tilted, like a poem misremembered in a dream.

#vss365 #prompt

mind adrift —
in the #realm of half-forgotten things
the dawn laughs quietly

* has a greater sound and poetic flow

#haiku

#vss365 #prompt

mind drifts past the desk—
in the #realm of half-remembered
dawn’s silent laughter
_________________

mente a vagar —
no #reino do quase-esquecido
ri em silêncio a aurora

#haiku

I shut my eyes.

But I feel the heaviness of your absence when I place my hand on the ceiling.

So near.
So close it hurts to be just me.

#poetry #poem #poet

2/2

"Veil" I dwell below you. but we've never touched. Your floor holds your days. my dreams are on my ceiling. Sometimes I can hear you laughing. I sometimes breathe more deeply. as if you could hear me. A quiet gentleness climbs the wall between us like ivy climbing to light. I shut my eyes. But I feel the heaviness of your absence when I place my hand on the ceiling. So near. So close it hurts to be just me. __________________________________ "Véu" Moro mesmo por baixo de ti. Nunca nos tocámos. Nem por engano. O teu chão aguenta os teus passos, o meu teto ampara os meus sonhos — como um travesseiro que ninguém partilha. Às vezes ouço-te rir, e fico quieto. Como se pudesse guardar o som, como se fosse para mim. E às vezes respiro mais fundo, sem querer, como se o ar subisse e tu ouvisses o que não digo. Há uma ternura qualquer, discreta, tímida, que sobe pela parede entre nós como hera teimosa à procura de sol. Não sei o teu nome. Mas sei a forma exata da tua ausência quando encosto a mão ao teto e ele não me devolve nada. Tão perto. Tão perto que me dói ser só eu deste lado da parede.

Veil

I dwell below you.
but we've never touched.

Your floor holds your days.
my dreams are on my ceiling.

Sometimes I can hear you laughing.
I sometimes breathe more deeply.
as if you could hear me.

A quiet gentleness climbs
the wall between us like ivy climbing to light.

1/2

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#senryu #haiku

the stars mock me
for still being this sad —
I nod. “Fair enough.”
_________________

as estrelas zombam
da minha velha tristeza —
respondo: “é justo.”

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