In the beginning, it was darkness.

The plunge into the unknown ocean.

A little girl dominated by her primordial impulses,

submerged in the cold, deep blue.


Immersed in a landscape of archaic forms,

old structures,

rubble of personalities and memories.

Wild beauty, inhabited by animals of a fierce nature.

Affirming strength in constant movement.


Her fingers failed to hold any solid structure.

Her feet couldn't touch the floor.

She was taken by the tides of incoherence.

and her body experienced hostile realities of being. 


Until she became attentive to the landscapes...

New realities were revealed and penetrated by

enzymes, lightening the spots darkened by time.


Emotions were felt and dissolved.

Sensations were perceived and disappeared.


She saw a flash.


A strange stillness emerged

from the flowing wells,

heated just like human warmth.

She finally touched the ground,

She rested her feet under beds of sand,

 shaped by loving hands.


Her body was elevated to a feeling of well-being,

She became stronger, not resisting but learning how to dance with the tides.



in her rescue from a sudden drowning,

dolphins and whales

introduced to her, their way of breathing.


Until she rose to the light.

K Sea Ya

Mill Valley, Jully 2019


Lágrimas de Yemanja 


Será uma parte de mim 

ou um pedaço tirado?

Separado, alienado, desconectado

A forma

Contida, redonda


Liquido vivo, viscoso 


Na superfície,


etéreo véu 

cristal fluido.


Seria o eu, o próprio vaso, 

ou o gosto 

O cheiro, o toque? 

Ou as duas coisas 


A noite chegou, no sono


em sonho.

Corpos em pedaços


Braços que poderiam ter sido asas

Pés sem crescer raízes

Corações paralisados.

Cabeças ocas, corpos vazios.


Moringas em multidão.

Umas com flores, 

outras não.

Algumas com mel,

Outras não.

Outras vazia e sem razão,

Tinha até escorpião.

Dai joguei, abri, quebrei, 

Jorrei água salgada

Que encheu moringa.

Água que flor não cresce. 


O dia chegou, o sol nasceu, 

A luz tocou o vaso...

Agua de choro esquenta

inspira, agita, contorce 


Separa ao vento


A nuvem densa, 


Expira, chora 


Sem retornar a moringa.

Mas la deixou sua filha,

crescida sob olhar do pai:

A Cristalina fina Flor de Sal.

O retorno a sua morada

O doar, O amar,


A mãe


O Mar

Lagrimas salgadas de Yemanja. 


K Sea Ya

Salvador, Jan 2017


Born in Brazilian lands, my memory comes from many other lands besides the sea.


Inscribed in my DNA, 1/4 of a circle, a triangle of African memory.

Even Benin, the Bantu people, Nigeria and Ghana.


A memory that was overwhelmed by the half-circle 60% part Spanish,

Portuguese and other parts of the people known as troubadours and colonizers.


Lucky me, I was welcomed by the 10% indigenous where the revelation started.


For a long time a war, where 36% of the oppressed memory clamored for its space,

for its expression, connection, and recognition.

It also cried out for awareness of what happened.


I grew up in a system where the recognition of the memory of the oppressed people,

it meant living by the social margins.


I came from a Catholic family of brave mothers of many children,

domineering but loving fathers. 

Strong bodies, however, asleep, sick, and tired minds.


In this anthropophagic cauldron, peace had to be achieved through the recognition of the pain left behind.

breaking and breaking,

wars brought the recognition that there was never a winner who could live with the pain of losing a child

in a battle and live life victorious alone.


During these last two hundred years in Brazil,

being a cabocla or cafuza was as if the blood was diluted and less noble.

So we try to hide the frizzy hair and make up the yellowish skin.

Use well-made long nails that do not demonstrate that the hands are made for effort.

And the stiletto shoe falsifies a root that barely touches the ground, and they keep sleeping feet.

The normal has become the vanity of covering up the fear of being revealed,

a woman's flourishing between being a wild and cosmic divine creature.


The memory that was forgotten at the feet of the baobab of the ancestral wisdom of living.

There they stripped and imprisoned kings and queens and their court, their children;

leaders of a people with their own system of beliefs and values ​​that guaranteed their evolution for thousands of years.

Memory compressed in the holds of ships,

and dug up as if by enchantment and hard work,

for more than 100 years.


Traumas have put us to sleep in oblivion.

But as everything returns one day,

it is necessary to wake up and understand that we are moving towards new cycles at the pace of our steps.

Conscious or unconscious, the path is traced on earth.



How did I get here? Well, I thank myself also for the paths that my parents showed through the suffering they carry along their path. 

In this meeting, the blessings of love,

I thank my light-eyed foreigner who came to meet me and believed that my dance,

art, and expression were important, he bought my freedom allowing me to follow the path of learning and returning. He took care of my combat wounds, showed me the way of looking equally.


Hearing the invitation to repent, forgive, and lament, I recognized forgetfulness.

I entered the dance of body memory to reintegrate into the process of evolution and rectified continuity.

In the filaments of the hybrid soul, the paths of encounter, awake, alive and active, knew.

I remembered just in time.

K Sea Ya, March 2020