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.