Swan Song

I used to write the songs I never sang I used to be the music I never heard As time lapses in its infinite reality Memory flashes aureate moments to cherish One final note is heard to complete such symphony In a magical spell of repetitive tinkling silver bells Tinkling, tinkling, tinkling Undeniable merriment it foretells The song, one last composition Of pride and prejudice Of sense and sensibilities Echoeing in every nook and cranny Lights glare up to heighten the passion As the songbird sings the final opus Audible enough for the lending ears Finally, a tribute, an ode, a song for progeny.