He rose not from marble, but memory’s flame,
With a name the world first stumbled to name.
From Honolulu’s shores to Chicago's street,
He found his rhythm, found his feet.
A scholar’s calm, a poet’s tone,
A voice that made the country own
Its fractured past, its promised land—
With steady mind and open hand.
He spoke of hope when hope was thin,
Of bridges built, not walls within.
And dared to dream in full daylight,
That justice might reclaim its right.
No crown he wore, no throne he sought,
Just ballots cast and lessons taught.
A father’s pride, a husband’s grace,
A quiet strength in history’s place.
He walked the halls where few had stood,
With skin like mine, misunderstood.
But there he stood, a mirror wide—
For every child once pushed aside.
Yes, he was flawed—as we all are—
But lit a path like a rising star.
He did not fix what time has worn,
But showed us how new dreams are born.
For in his words, we saw the climb,
The long arc bending into time.
He changed the frame, he raised the bar—
And left the door a little ajar.
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