My father holds the reaper’s hand at my bedside.
It has a light grip, just as how he used to hold mine
when I was a little girl.

Your warm skin, the one that used to embrace me,
is now cold and
sends a shiver down my spine knowing what is to come.

You showed me the beauty of the world,
but now I watch the end of it,
and it fades with you.

Father, everything you’ve told me
is written in my soul.
I will go out and spread it, one by one.

I wish that I could stop the sky from wanting.