Flora Purim
Butterfly Dreams

THE REVIEW

Did Master Zhuang dream he was a butterfly, or did she perhaps dream she was Master Zhuang?

It begins like this: with a flight and a haunting lament; with a boundless escape and a time measured as a warning.

A gentle and grave never satisfied floating, between the inside and the elsewhere.

Indeed, to reverse the inside and the outside; like the butterfly and the Chinese sage.

And it rests lightly on nothing, to aim higher, in flights and other flights.

More, always more.

Then a calm, a familiar lullaby, a sacred maternal caress.

Pilgrimage of a voice in a land without names, educated and blossomed from the land of Brazil, landed in a land of lightness.

Resting, for a momentary respite that is not yet and already is not.

From Bossa Nova, the young Flora of the Sixties, to the shaken, mixed, blended following decade never again longed for respite, but for agitated rhythms and high flights.

A fusion of sounds that is a fusion of horizons and a return home, where the home, reborn from a faint sprout, is now a shrub of a thousand colors.

Of course, quite a leap: a leap that is a flight between deep valleys and towering peaks, to find oneself in what?

In a house of wind, in a stateless movement.

So let it be a flight, Flora.

Let it be a flight.