He sketched a dream in copper lines, with gears and silent sparks,
A voice to bridge the world apart, to sing from light to dark.
But just two hours made the tale, a race he didn’t win—
Still stood he tall, not cursed the fall, but raised his eyes again.
While others might have walked away or drowned in bitter sighs,
He built anew, with steady hands, and stars still in his eyes.
A spark became a printed word, a signal through the air—
He lost the first, but not the flame; his vision didn’t care.
It’s not the clock that makes a soul,
But how you rise and try.
For every “no” the world may shout,
Let courage be reply.
A dream delayed is not denied—
Let proud hearts testify!
So march with him, that beat behind, whose steps still shaped the day,
A builder not of only things, but of a fearless way.
Though history marked another name, he carved his path with pride—
A hero not of “just in time,” but of the fire inside.