The Mermaid Soul

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Typographic rustic ISBN: 9788490078426

SKU: 9788490078426 Category: Tags: , ,

The mermaid soul. Emilia Pardo Bazan

Already the cypresses of the holy field did not stand out against a background of purple, but on the languid hue of seawater that precedes the darkness. Leonelo, carrying in a basket his harvest of flowers of death, left the enclosure, and along the path, barely open among the wet grass, he went to the fifth, in whose windows the last ray of the setting sun still mirrored.
The loneliness was filled and accentuated by strange noises, muffled, soft cadences, which suggested something not perceptible to the senses. They were perhaps whispers of foliage shaken by the fingers of shadow of the night; scrambled birds settling in the nest, to sleep bristling their feathers; flébil complaints of the water, which in the night hours sobs freely, without having to restrain itself before the cheerful and mocking gaze of the Sun; resonances of the sea on the not distant beach, propagated in the calm air, with funeral solemnity of deep Gregorian chant, and, transmitted from echo to echo, stanzas of pastoral songs, there in the mountain, where the slow oxen and the cows with trembling udders were collected to the stable. Leonelo paused for a moment, shortened with breath, and sat on an old stone, all fluffy with moss, to listen to that concert vaguely diffused by the areas of the already calm air. From the basket rose aroma: Leonelo, when inhaled, felt an intoxication of memories. He got up and continued on his way.
He passed the gate of the fifth. Moro, the guard dog, received him with the cheerful and humble outpouring of custom. All doors were open; In the living room, on the large table of rough chestnut, the servant had placed the burning lamp, and against its glass tube, the phalenas, inveterate idealists, dreamers of light, shattered their wings of silver dust and the plush coseletes, falling scorched in an ecstasy of martyrdom. Leonelo wedged himself into the leather armchair polished by use, and placed before him the light basket of wickers: the cut flowers filled him with graceful and artistic disorder.
“The same flowers, the same ones that grow on the edge of the mill dam, on the path, in the bushes of the edge, in every corner! He murmured loudly, with immense astonishment.
Until that moment he had not realized the simple and wonderful fact: the flowers of the holy field were exactly identical to the others, to anyone. The chamomiles had their own bitter smell, equal whiteness scorched in the center by sudden touch of blush; the honeysuckle trigueñas, equally penetrating aroma; hemlocks, the eternal vivacious gold of its petals; the digital ones, the usual exquisite elegance of its tabby and hairy bells. Was it possible that they did not differ from those that only absorbed terroir juices, those flowers nourished with the substance of someone who had loved him, who had loved him so much, until the last hour of living?

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