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.
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