Before I sat down to release this to public (whatever my public is), two people read it. One of them said that it would be interesting if it was music, the other said that it could get away as a children's song. I don't know if I would go that far, given the common assumption that I have the worst voice in the world, but I'm glad that there's some kind of a toddler's vivid imagination combined with the usual nonsense in all this.
And a disclaimer, since I saw "Deadly Women" on television last night: I am seriously not obsessed with poisoning or hurting people. In this particular p..m as well as most Wrong Star ones, characters appear to be crossovers between fantasy creatures and mutants and there's a very good reason for that. If poison and a poisonous herb get mentioned often, there's a good reason for that, too...a reason that, unlike secondary stories that inspired this whole series, will never go away.
Nekad je bio princ skraćenih krila,
posle vatre postao je krilato žapče.
Ponekad, on razbacuje prašinu kroz noć,
Ali najčešće se sakriva u močvari.
Svi oni dolaze ovamo,
da makar gvirnu u njegove velike oči,
ali nikad ne znaju
kad će prašiti, a kad će leteti.
On skakuće okolo po tempiranom cveću,
dok ono sanja ultraljubičaste snove.
On ostavlja samo sićušne tragove stopala,
i ponovo zaranja u blatnjave potoke.
Čekam ga, sa sve trnjem,
sa godinama je sve oštrije.
Hoću da ga obgrlim svojim laticama.
Hoću da ga drmusam dok ne postane princ.
Hoću da ga štipam dok ne postane žabac.
Zašto ne bi mogao da bude krilati princ?'
Zašto ne bi mogao da bude obično žapče?
I onda pomislim...
ne bih da mu vezujem krila,
ne bih da mu zbacim krunu s glave,
jer moj pupoljak nije srce,
a moje latice nisu balska haljina.
He used to be a wingclipped prince,
Since the fire he's been a winged frog.
Sometimes he scatters dust in the night,
But is mostly hiding in the bog.
They all come here
To catch a gleam of his wide eyes,
But they never know
When he dusts and when he flies.
He hops around clockwork flowers
When they're dreaming ultraviolet dreams.
He leaves only tiny traces of his feet
And again he dives in muddy streams.
Waiting with my thorns,
They've grown sharper over years.
I want to embrace him with my petals
I want to shake him until he's a prince
I want to pinch him until he's a frog
Why can't he be a winged prince?
Why can't he be a plain frog?
And then I think...
Won't tie his wings
Won't kick off his crown,
For my bud is not a heart
And my petals are not a gown.