Something called Pride

There will come a time in which the sea will cease to foam,
For it is true, that nothing is ever really set in stone,
If ever the rainbow be painted monochrome,
And if ever the wind should, at last, cease its breath,
From my pride- then only- would I so much as roam,
For it's like how embers strive long after the fire's put to death.

Down this long and winding stream we've been rowing,
Countless suns and moons of roosters crowing,
Glowing, and growing- intense, the wind blowing,
I shall stand obstinate for what I believe,
If martyrdom should finalize me, quick- without my knowing,
Do not fret; I've at last been relieved.