This video features a single static image, and the music is the way I express the sadness I feel about the suffering of animals. I used to play this piece on the streets of São Paulo, and its original title is “O Vento,” (translated to en-us: The Wind) composed in 2020. I also have a composition titled “The Wind,” which is unrelated to this one.
There is a silence that is not the absence of sound, but an excess of pain. It lives in those eyes. Eyes that do not speak our language, yet say everything we avoid hearing. Each of them carries an entire world of sensation, of waiting, of restrained fear, and of a kind of resignation that should not exist in any living being.
What we see here are not just fragments of faces, but portals. Small windows opened into consciousnesses that feel the wind, the cold, the loneliness, and above all, the lack of freedom. There is something spiritual in this, because it is not only about imprisoned bodies, but about lives that continue to perceive, to register, to exist despite everything. There is a flame there, silent, that does not go out, even when everything around tries to reduce it to an object.
The gaze of an animal does not accuse as a human’s does. It does not judge, does not form speeches, does not organize ideologies. It simply is. And perhaps that is why it hurts more. Because in front of it, there is no negotiation. There is no argument that dissolves what is there: the evidence of a pain that did not ask to be born, but was imposed. A pain that crosses time like a constant wind, invisible, yet always present.
That wind, which was transformed into music, seems to pass through each of those eyes. It finds no resistance, because it has already taken almost everything. Even so, something remains. A kind of essential presence, almost sacred, that resists being forgotten. As if each being were saying, in silence, that its life is not a detail of the world, but part of it—inseparable, worthy of being recognized. There is a deep melancholy in all of this, but it is not an empty melancholy. It is a melancholy that calls for awareness. That invites us to feel instead of turning away. That whispers that compassion is not a distant ideal, but a concrete choice, made in the most everyday actions.
Perhaps what weighs most is not only the suffering itself, but the distance we create so we do not have to see it. And yet, those eyes cross that distance. They reach us somehow, like echoes. Like long notes sustained in the air, like your music, which does not resolve, does not conclude, but simply remains.
And in that remaining, something begins to change. Because when we finally hold the gaze of those who suffer, without turning away, without justifying, there is an encounter. And every true encounter has something spiritual about it. It is there, in that silent space between one being and another, that the possibility of change is born.
The wind continues. But perhaps, if we truly listen to it, it will cease to be only a lament and become a call as well. The animals are divine beings, were created to be contemplated and must be protected.
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