I will hear the Swan's song soon.
Pale, as the moon shines.
A fading shade and then gone.

My feathers will become fossils.
My bones will become relics.
My memory will become heirlooms to be pass down.

What more could I desire to leave behind?
When this fire goes out, do not doubt.
The ashes shall preserve my bittersweet leftovers

Standing as a haunting reminder to all
More ghostly than any ghost
That I shall survive for as long as there are those who remember

And that is it.