Swan Song

The air around him grew toxic and cold; the enemy, bred from his people’s blood and collective ignorance, closed in from all directions. It had no presence, only a suffocating absence of all things that he loved. Standing there alone, with nowhere left to go and nothing left standing to fight for, he realized that he was the last. There were no more. He could feel the final oppressor, the sum of all humanity’s misdeeds, dancing over the surface of his skin, taunting him, begging for admission. He closed his eyes and relaxed his clenched fists. Finding his last breath, the sacred song began to well up inside of him. He brought his palms together, arms stretched out before him, with such force that lightning crackled between his palms and the very fabric of space began to fragment around him. He slowly pulled his hands to his chest in prayer. Humming a low, clear note, he remained there peacefully defiant. The enemy hissed and in that sound one could hear the crashes of numberless fallen trees, the timorous cries of billions of beasts ushered to slaughter, gun shots, bombs, screams, and most of all, the deafening ignorance of his fellow man. But for a brief few moments, the man’s voice won out. It was the Prima’s last dance, the swan’s song, the final masterpiece lain humbly on the altar of love, all in that single breath. As his lungs began to fail a smile crept onto his lips as, for one final time, the beauty and joy of being alive sang through the suffering he had beared witness to. His only regret was that he had been unable to bring more love into the hearts of his brothers and sisters, who lay lifeless around him, divided and conquered. Then, his breath was gone and in an instant the shadow snuffed him out. He was the last. There were no more.


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