grounded in listening.

Without introduction, let’s go straight to the point: our time

is up.

Is the time for listening over?

The idea of listening has fallen to the ground. Listening fell to

the ground and ears were planted? They tried.

Yesterday frightened ears were planted and today the canals

consume the ears of the sound from inside the tucumã seed

waxed in the core of the bee. A shrill sound, forbidden to the

ears of the world, perhaps of the worlds, where the opening

of this sound generates imprisonments in a life that lacks

listening.

It is sounding, but how is it possible?

This absence of sound produced by the shrill cry of the

kernel of this fruit – and this is not a generalization – creates

the night and its echoes: a sound of unconceived space,

perhaps the sound of non-contemplation.

Isolation. Helpless sound. Distancing. They are mere

warnings.

The sound is loud and isolates people from the collective,

but why? “Transit,” they said.

We never walk alone.

But the distance of that route over waters, the traversing of

colonial comas, where the canoes of the ancients paddle

towards a surrender remains firm:

listening.

Disassociated from a justification, in the end, surrender

seeks surrender itself.

Would this be the dialogue with listening?

The time for listening is over, though. Over?

They are warnings.

ouvir àterra

ou vir à terra

ouvir à terra

ou virà terra

When the land becomes sick, is it time to flee or listen to the

land? Time to plant? Depressions and outbreaks fluctuate.

The earth grounds. But it insists on talking to the world and

scare-ears and all its beings. That strident sound of the pit

remains installed in the night and the song of the inhambu

still seems distant to me. But still, these days, we hear an

echo in the midst of so many voices: in this conflagration the

earth follows its millennial flow.

But here the idea of reparation is suspended.

Where is “here”?

The time is up.

It’s urgent to listen.