"It is not "water" that moves here,
but the mountain’s cold blood
seeking the lowest prayer.
The white rush of the stream
is the only clock that matters,
carving a dialogue between stone and gravity
long before we learned to speak.
Look at the moss—
those emerald lungs clinging to the bark.
The tree does not own the moss,
nor does the moss steal from the tree;
they are a single, breathing yes
to the dampness of the world.
We stand on the ridge,
clinging to our names and our borders,
while the ivy bridges the gap
between the root and the sky.
Under the floor of copper leaves,
the mycelium whispers in the dark,
proving that to be alone is an illusion
we invented to feel important.
The forest does not look at you.
It invites you to be quiet enough
to hear your own heart beating
in sync with the falling water,
until you can no longer tell
where the wood ends
and you begin. "
João Soares, 14.02.2026
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