Caged Bird. Drabble. Original.
Sing little grasshopper, sing!
...oh, you don't want to sing?
What a shame!
And after I was so nice as to take you in.
How ungrateful of you really. I ought to punish you for that!
...but I won't if you sing for me.
Sing me a love song, of moonlit night and dew-drenched roses. Sing me a love song, of a tragic romance and lovers whose stars became super novas. Sing me a love song, and sing sweetly, so that the birds themselves may die of envy while the stars weep to hear your voice.
Sing. That's all I ask of you. All I will ever ask of you. I'll release you if you sing for me, fill your hands with gold, spread tales of your fame all o'er the land and your life will be lived as if you were born under a charmed star, instead of a cursed one.
...is that hard to sing for me? Such a simple thing that I ask, no, demand of you. Such a simple, simple thing. Even the youngest child knows a lullaby or two. One as old as you, twenty shifts of the seasons at least, should know several songs, for several occasions. Though what song do you sing for someone who woos you in a desert, who gifts you with blood and gold and immortality? What song will you sing me, my pretty darkling, my pretty darling?
You won't sing for me still?
I'm not surprised.
A caged bird never sings. It merely screams.
...oh, you don't want to sing?
What a shame!
And after I was so nice as to take you in.
How ungrateful of you really. I ought to punish you for that!
...but I won't if you sing for me.
Sing me a love song, of moonlit night and dew-drenched roses. Sing me a love song, of a tragic romance and lovers whose stars became super novas. Sing me a love song, and sing sweetly, so that the birds themselves may die of envy while the stars weep to hear your voice.
Sing. That's all I ask of you. All I will ever ask of you. I'll release you if you sing for me, fill your hands with gold, spread tales of your fame all o'er the land and your life will be lived as if you were born under a charmed star, instead of a cursed one.
...is that hard to sing for me? Such a simple thing that I ask, no, demand of you. Such a simple, simple thing. Even the youngest child knows a lullaby or two. One as old as you, twenty shifts of the seasons at least, should know several songs, for several occasions. Though what song do you sing for someone who woos you in a desert, who gifts you with blood and gold and immortality? What song will you sing me, my pretty darkling, my pretty darling?
You won't sing for me still?
I'm not surprised.
A caged bird never sings. It merely screams.