Muve
++
Muve ++
Uvod
Otkud muva na ivici moje čaše
Mislila sam da ih više nema
Muve prenose bolesti i treba ih suzbiti
Muva je na ivici moje čaše
Trlja šake
(Trlj-trlj, trlj)
Strofa 1
Kao nekad na selu
Bagrem u cvetu, Sunce prži njive velike
One tamo naše postale su posle tuđe
Orah na deset koraka od kuće
Jel to valja tako
Jel to valja tako
Puca orahov list, ja ga lomim on miriše
I to volim tako, volim tako
Strofa 2
Ručak na stolu, za stolom su svi
I muve, lete (lete), zuje (zuje), muve
Strofa 3
Muva je brza i čovek teško može da je uhvati
Al' čovek se setio, čovek je dohakao na tu s traku muvu natakao, nasukao
Nećeš si ga majci vala, nećeš siga m- c- m- aci-
Strofa 4
Lepljiva traka na orahu visi
I bezbroj pravih muva na njoj
Tako stoje gotovo, kraj
Strofa 5
Ovo sećanje je autentično moje
Pravo, stvarno, istinito, a šta to znači
Skup slova
Ovo sećanje nije autentično moje
Uzmi ga, nek' bude tvoje
(Ostavi mi samo dah) Sve to nešto čvrsto, sve to nešto moje, sad je stvarno divno
(-nek' bude tvoje)
Kraj
A-d-i-m, skup slova
A s-t-v-a-r-n-o, p-r-a-v-o-o, skup snova
Nema više stvarno, pravo, nestalo je kao dim
Sve je samo kao (Samo kao)
S-k-u-p s-l-o-v-a
Muve
++
Muve ++
(The Fly)
“Muve” begins with a seemingly tender, almost nostalgic recollection: a sensory-rich memory of a childhood moment — the sound of crunching leaves, the presence of flies or moths, the echo of summer stillness. In the video, this is set in the home of a grandmother, a place filled with warmth and familiarity. The opening verse paints something that feels wholly real. A sacred fragment of memory.
But as the song progresses, Konstrakta begins to dismantle the very truth of the memory. What first appeared to be authentic is suddenly called into question:
“This memory is mine... (but is it really?) What does that even mean — it’s just a set of letters.”
This line cuts like a philosophical blade. The track reveals itself to be about the fragility of identity, and more urgently, the unreliability of memory. In a digital, post-truth age, where even memories can be replicated, shared, distorted — how can one be sure that anything is truly one’s own?
Everything “mine” becomes air — intangible, evaporating. The reduction of words to a set of letters, signals a crisis of meaning. Not only is the self dissolving, but even language — the very medium we use to define the self — is now seen as insufficient. There is no longer truth, only fragments.
In the final line — “there’s nothing real anymore” — we are left not with despair, but with unsettling clarity: identity, memory, meaning, and language are all fragile constructs. Perhaps beautiful. But undeniably unstable in our digital era.