Quimeras (ou histórias de um faroleiro) / Chimeras (Or stories of a lighthouse keeper) -- II

(Veja aqui o início)

E foi numa tarde de fim de Verão, quando os dias ainda são quentes, mas a lua chega mais cedo; foi numa tarde de Verão que a viu.

Estava sentada na praia, a olhar o mar, o cabelo não era nem longo nem azul, como o da sereia que lhe povoava a imaginação. Mas, ainda assim, sabia que era ela.

Lembrou-se do velho faroleiro, e pediu-lhe emprestada um pouco da sua coragem. E assim se aproximou dela e disse-lhe olhos nos olhos – sei que és uma sereia, os teus cabelos não são azuis, mas ondeiam como o mar.

E ela sorriu.

“Eu não sou sereia, mas tenho em mim as memórias de uma que percorreu este mar.”

“Conta-me”, pediu ele.

A minha avó. Foi sereia, em tempos. Quando era da minha idade. Ao entrar na água, o cabelo ficava azul. Toda a gente achava estranho, todos a evitavam, não entendiam metamorfoses. Por isso costumava nadar sozinha, flutuava nas ondas, enquanto imaginava os mundos que se achariam para lá do horizonte. Todos lhe diziam que para lá do horizonte não havia nada, mas ela ouvia o chamamento do mar.

Houve um faroleiro que acreditou nela, porque sabia que os navios que orientava vinham do horizonte. Era ele que a chamava de sereia, dizia que era por isso que o seu cabelo se fundia com  o mar.”

(Continua)

Pegadas, by Isa Lisboa

(see the begining here)

And it was on an afternoon in late summer, when the days are still warm but the moon comes early. It was on a summer afternoon that he saw her.

She was sitting on the beach looking at the sea, her hair was neither long nor blue, like the mermaid who lived in his imagination. But still, he knew it was her.

He remembered the old lighthouse keeper, and borrowed a bit of his courage. And so he approached her and told her in the eye - I know you're a mermaid, your hair is not blue, but it has waves like the ones in the sea.

And she smiled.

"I'm not a mermaid, but I have in me the memories of one that swam in this sea."

"Tell me," he asked.

My grandmother. She was a mermaid, once. When she was my age. When entering the water, her hair turned blue. Everyone felt weird, all avoided her, didn’t understand metamorphoses. So she used to swim alone, floating on the waves, while imagining what worlds could be found beyond the horizon. Everyone told her that there was nothing on the horizon, but she heard the calling of the sea.

There was a lighthouse keeper who believed her, because he knew that the ships he guided came from the horizon. It was he who said she was a mermaid, he would say that was why her hair blended with the sea. "

(To be continued)