An instinct whispers in my ear,
Quietly, so only I can hear,
"Death is coming, prepare to fight!"
I trust him; because he's always right.
I turn and try to raise my knife;
But my assailant is too fast, for I just lost my life
I couldn't say good-bye,
I love you, or I'll miss you; I could only breathe one last sigh,
Look at the crescent moon, and slowly… painfully… die.
