The hour is late, but it has come, and better late than never.
The white eagle, its hour come round at last, flies into the pyre of Gehenna, to die and be reborn as a fiery phoenix.
Your name is wrong, by the way. Death is not the end, not for those whose offspring are the tales in the minds and hearts of men.
Who knows what stories lie in the breasts of men? The Flammifer, the Lucifer, the Skywalker knows. I know, for I am he and he is me.