They say that Iara lies on a white sandy bottom of a river and plays with motley matupiri fish that weave on top of her body, half-hidden by the river's flow that streams into flooded forests.
Iara is a beautiful Indian woman, she sings in the shadow of palm trees, combing her black hair that is the same dark black color as her big wonderful eyes are.
Her head is crowned with a garland of lilac flowers and her luscious scarlet lips smile seductively and attractively. Iara sings, and the forest echo echoes her song. When the night comes, the voice of the Mother of Water resonates and flows over the gigantic river.
Gone is the last ray of Sun. Scarlet orchids and Golden jasmine buds open up and stretch to the sky. And Iara just sings and sings. And the young Native American is afraid of going up to the source of the river. He trembles, shaken by the singing of Iara and he runs, so as not to hear her voice, and he whispers:
"Oh, Iara ... She is beautiful ... but she brings death."
Once a flock of fish led the young man far from his home and the night caught him at the lake.
It was so huge, so many river tributaries flowed into it, and he tried to keep his boat on the water, first paddling with a firm hand, and then rowing away from the shore so as not to stumble upon sunken tree trunks. So he swam past the coastal mangroves, palm groves, flooded forests.
But suddenly he heard the song and saw the head of Iara rising up from the water. Her smile, her eyes and her beauty dazzled him. The oar handles slipped out of his hands and he forgot his own home and family, he was struck dumb and deaf, hearing only the beating of his own heart. The fisherman forgot himself and his canoe became adrift. When the youth did wake up, a fresh wind from the vast expanses of the Amazon was blowing onto his face.
Then the next day he woke up late and immediately realized that all joy in his life became sorrow for him. To be under the home roof was suffering, the caring of people close to him just weighted him down, and only the river attracted him. The wild lands at its source attracted the young man.
"He's bewitched by Iara!" the people said.
Every morning, as soon as the sun was barely above the horizon, and the birds in the groves welcomed it with a friendly chorus, a light canoe under the dark sail, painted with palm juice, was on the river already, and the young man already craved to hear bird song of the evening.
One day, to pass the time, he decided to hunt for sea turtles. But the arrows fell out of his hands and bow fell down.
As time went on, and he was immersed in thought, he floated adrift, surrendering to the will of the waves.
The herons were already in the nest, and the nests have turned white from the abundance of birds, but the evening bird has not yet started singing. The young man felt his sadness leave and he joy returning, the sun dropped behind the trees, the banks of Amazon were plunged into darkness, it was the hour of Iara - the twilight, neither day nor night!
Coming to his senses, the lovesick youth quietly began to paddle. The rodent capybara, looking out from the reed-beds scared him, a snipe flew up from a floating island, a fish splashed in the river and the heart of the young man sank from excruciating hope.
In the forest, among the shifting deceptive shadows, a passionate, charming song suddenly sounded. This was Iara, complaining about the coldness of the young man. But the paddles fell out of his hands and he had no strength to look away from the beautiful Iara, today she was as beautiful as ever.
His heart was torn from his chest, but in his memory sound the words of mother:
"Son, don't let Iara charm you. Run from her, her embrace is your doom!"
The evening bird no longer sings. Only the sharp laughter of the night birds sounds from the forest.
The night has now come into its own. Darkness has settled over the coast and the young man came home sadder than ever, torn between his attraction and the instructions of his mother.
And so days follow days. The youth gave up fishing long ago, he avoids he friends and family.
And then one day people saw how his abandoned boat floats on the river. Since then never would the young fisherman go to fish - Iara had bewitched him and taken him.
They say that a few days later people found the young man's body on a reed island; his lips were smiling and bleeding from Iara's kisses.
Iara - the Mother of Waters
Lying on the white sand of the igarapй, playing with the Matupiris, who pass it on the body half hidden by the current that is headed for the Igapу, a beautiful Tapuia sings in the shadow of the jauaris, shaking the long and black hair, as black as her big eyes.
The lilac flowers of the mururй form a wreath on her face that makes the provocative smile that curls the thin, rosy lips.
She sings, singing the exile, so that the echoes repeat through the forest, and that, when night comes, and they resonate in the waters of the giant of the rivers.
Night falls, roses and jasmine come out of the golden horns and spread across the horizon, and she sings and sings all the time; but the boy Tapuio who passes is not encouraged to look for the source of the Igarapй.
She sings and he hears; But moved, he fled, repeating:
"It's beautiful, but it's death... it's Iara."
Once the spawning dragged him away, the night surprised him... The lake is large, the streams intersect, and he follows them, now wielding the Apucuitaua with a firm hand, now propelling the mount, leaning on the trunks of the trees, and thus crosses the forest, the Igapу and the Murizal.
Suddenly a sight amazes him, a head comes out of the water, her smile and his beauty overshadow him, he contemplates it, drops the Iacumб, and thus forgets also the Tejupar; He pays no attention to the beating of his heart, and engulfed in his thoughts, leaves the mount to go from Bubuia, not awakening when he felt about the fountain the cool breeze of the Amazon.
Awakened very late, the sadness seized his joy, the Tejupar makes his martyrdom, the family is an oppression, the waters, only the waters, call him, only the loneliness of the streams enchants him.
"Iara hu Piciana!" Iara took him! Every day, when the dawn with its garments roзagantes walks in the spring, greeted by the pencii who sing in the Samaumeiras, he always finds a mount with the dark candle ink of Muruchi, which is headed for the Igarapй, leading the angler Tapuio desirous to listen in the corner of the Chachalaca. To pass the time he seeks the boiadouro of Iurarб, but the Sararaca falls from his hand and the Muirapara leans away. The hours pass to their thoughts, while the mount goes from Bubuia.
The Acarequissaua is white, but the Chachalaca has not yet sung. Sadness disappears; joy returns, because the sun is already shrouded behind the embauleiras of the far shore of the Amazon; it is Iara time.
Go paddle sweetly; the Capiuara that comes out of the canarana strikes; the Jacana that flies from the Periantг gives him hope, that the pirarucu that he overcomes deceives him.
Suddenly a sight disturbs him; it is Iara who complains about the coldness of Tapuio.
Drop the paddle; Iara appeared to him as charming as she had never been.
The heart jumps in his chest, but his mother's recommendation came to her memory: "Tayra do not be seduced by Iara, flee from her arms, she is Munusaua."
The Chachalaca no longer sang, and from the bottom of the forest came the Estrнdula laugh of the Jurutaн.
The night covers the space, and sadder than ever returns the Tapuio in struggle with his heart and with the maternal advice.
So the days go by, already running away from friends and leaving fishing in abandonment.
Once they saw a bubuia ride down the Amazon, abandoned because the Pirassara had been seduced by the vision of Iara.
Later a teonguera appeared in a Matupб, bearing on the lips recent signs of the kisses of the Iara.