In this little poem wrapped in tears and bad rymes, I give to her so ever lasting present, the gift of eternal life…
You would think she was born on a stormy night with angels of death falling from the sky. She was in a rush, you see, cut out of mamas belly faster than a gipsy can lie. But Luca was born just a little to soon on a varm and smooth april afternoon, while the sun was walsing with cottonball clouds on the watch of a jealous full moon.
She hated people everywhere, for staring at her bananadress, her funky tattoos and her bright, cyan hair. But still her heart was full of them all. Them poor, them different, them sick, them lonely. And to them evil, she felt compassion, cause that was the purpose to her soul.
But in the end we killed our friend with too much love and too much laughter. We shipped her off to Neverland where she’ll transform to Peter Pan. So now you know that from now on, Peter Pan is no lost boy. The king of fairies in Neverland is now a fierce, young woman.
Two years has passed since we saw her last, that awesome witch, that anarchist bitch, a chill, but sunny afternoon. She was a poem, a song that came alive, a flower who just had bloomed. She was put in a coffin, but she didn’t fool me. I could see her eyes rolling. I could see her breath. But we locked her up in that blue, wooden box, our rainbow flavoured hippiechild, and in it I laid for her this pearls;
an apple for her wisdom, lemon for her bad mood, kiwi for her exotic taste. Melon because she was so refreshing, strawberry for her sweetness, orange because her smile was like sunshine, lime for her longdrinks in heaven and pieces of apples for her funeralcake.
MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU, LUCA SKYWALKER!