As aeons stretch, the dying ember sighs, painting the void with whispers of stellar gold, recounting tales of incandescent dances in the firmament's embrace.
"Let my nebulae sing," cries the fading titan, imbued with a wisdom as old as the cosmic cradle that bore its fiery essence.
Eloquent in its silence, the luminary drifts towards oblivion—an orbit of reminiscence ensconced in the ether's embrace, elusive and eternal.
"In my stellar womb," it murmurs softly, perpetual and cognizant,
the whispered symphony of time's gentle decay.