Baloiço / Swing

tree-swing-keinu_by ansik

Já tinha sido um baloiço vermelho, com as correntes direitas, bem oleadas. As crianças não brincavam sempre, o intervalo não durava o dia todo, mas quando era a altura, todas as crianças queriam brincar com ele. Cansava-se de andar para a frente e para trás, doía-lhe o metal, mas era feliz. O riso das crianças fazia-o esquecer do cansaço, descansava depois, quando o intervalo acabava.

A Alice era a sua favorita, muitas vezes ia sentar-se lá com ele quando já toda a gente tinha ido para casa. Movia os pezinhos devagar, compassadamente, apoiada nas correntes, sem balançar demais. Por vezes cantava. Baixinho. Mas ele ouvia-a. Cantava bem, voz melodiosa, talvez um dia viesse a ser cantora. Chegava um carro e ela ia embora, mas no outro dia voltava.

Isso foi quando era um baloiço vermelho. Agora a chuva, o sol, o granizo, haviam corroído toda a tinta, e ninguém o pintou de novo. As correntes estavam já tortas, meio gastas, em alguns sítios. Queria baloiçar, mas apenas um vento mais forte o fazia por vezes mover-se. Já não havia crianças a correr à sua volta, a competir pela sua vez de ir para o baloiço. Já não havia crianças. Ou pelo menos há muito tempo que não as via.

A Alice ainda passava lá, quase todos os dias. Mas estava crescida, supunha que já não o reconhecia. Passava lá perto e já não se sentava com ele. Tão pouco cantava. No fundo, talvez fosse isso que o deixava mais triste. A Alice já não cantava.

***

He had been a red swing, with his chains straight, well oiled. Children didn’t always played, the break didn’t last all day, but when it was time, all the kids wanted to play with him. Tired of going back and forward the metal would ached him, but he was happy. The laughter of children made ​​him forget the fatigue, he rested then, when the break ended.

Alice was his favourite, often she would sit there with him when everyone had already gone home. She moved her feet slowly, rhythmically, supported in his chains, without moving too much. Sometimes she sang. Softly. But he heard it. She sang well, a melodious voice, maybe one day she would be a singer. Then a car would come and she walked away, but returned the next day.

That was when he was a red swing. Now the rain, sun, hail, had destroyed all the ink, and nobody painted him again. The chains were already bent, worn through in some places. He wanted to swing, but only a strong wind made him move sometimes. There were no children running around, competing for their turn to go to the swing. There were no children. Or at least he didn’t see them anymore.

Alice still went there almost every day. But he was grown, he supposed that she no longer recognized him. She passes by and was no longer sits with him. Nor sings. At the end of the day, maybe that's what made ​​him sadder. Alice no longer sang.