We walk barefoot; sand fills the streets and courtyards—orange and soft, altering each step. You said the green moon might rise tonight, and if the fog clears, even the fireflies will appear. Among aloe plants and unfamiliar faces, we gather—that’s how charms are made.

I remember the “creole gardens” of Martinique, where many species grew together. Mixing was a way of discovering, you said. Now everything feels entangled—strange, yet familiar.

The Nazca drew the world from above and below. Even snakes rise from beneath. I want to see the horizon again; don’t let go of my hand.

Let’s form a circle and press our eyelids gently until shapes appear—like when we were children. In that shared gesture, we begin to see the same.

– Gabriela Zé