The rarest rose Frail and tender Bloomed before me 'Midst the coldest winter Shy and gentle Strong and fierce Spited snow and ice And thawed my frozen heart.
Plač u ivicama sna
Krošnje proleću među pticama
Rasparčane putanje i tragovi belog
- nebo, prah, oblaci, pilule –
Ushićenje postaje razočaranje
Visine se spuštaju
- ne zato što su dostignute –
A tlo je prišiveno za stopala
„Da li je beg moguć?“
Odgovori obrazuju beskonačnu figuru
Spirala postaje gladna osmica
Koju hranimo sobom
Kopnimo
Generacija koja pati,
Propada
I ne diše
Gušimo se u rečima na njihovom tanjiru
Grcamo u rečima koje imamo u sebi
U mislima kojima bismo leteli, tonemo
Nedostaje nam decenija, dve, tri
Nedostižno jutro bez gladnih leptira
Era Sunca, živog
She scatters the seeds with her tiny hands.
And pictures the sunset in a distant land.
She dreams of places, where she'd be free.
With clouds as far as the eyes could see.
And there she'd dance to the song of the rain,
While I would watch from my window pane.
With a smile befitting such a lovely girl;
The daughter I lost, to a cruel world...
Death Valet, first script V1.0 by A-Fox-Of-Fiction, literature
Literature
Death Valet, first script V1.0
This is part of the script for a graphic novel I wish to make, the plot is about an ordinary man named Winston who ends up becoming the valet of a human alligator named Alistair Garth, said alligator happening to be one of the greatest monsters on Earth, as the story progresses Winston begins meeting Garth's friends, family, girlfriend...and archenemesis.
During which Winston's own life begins to improve despite having to often deal with near death situations...and bizarrely enough helps end a horrible threat to Earth headed up by Garth's archenemy, the criminal mastermind tiger, Ednit Mritue.
The genre is humor, fantasy, and action, some e
I fell asleep once with my memory caught
in tadpoles and roses and water and light,
in the mausoleum where bloodshot eyes
And paper meet (where ideas drop from nubby pencils,
to splay, stillborn, across a sea of white).
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
When I woke, you were standing
on the edge of my sight,
your eyelids trailing ink.
I watched your hands fold in and out,
The smell of words too strong to think.
You smiled at me and let me fall
into the promise of your face.
There I read snowflakes, sea-foam and angels;
flashes of of glory and splinters of grace.
I asked you in, and your words behind -
'Sing, muse, of roses