The show must go on

It's a dying swan.
So, taking the heavy bird in my arms, I carried it to the river. It swam a little close to me. I wanted it to fish and I pointed out the pebbles on the bottom; the sands among which the silvery fish from the South slipped by. But it looked out in the distance with sad eyes.
Thus, every day, for more than twenty days, I took it to the river and brought it back home. One evening it was more absorbed, it swam near me too, not getting distracted by the insects through which I wanted to teach it to fish again. It remained very still, and I picked it up again to take it home.
Then, when I had it at the height of my chest, I felt it melting like a belt, something like a black arm brushed against my face.
It was its long, undulating neck that was falling.
Thus, I learned that swans do not sing when they die, when they die of sadness.