In fields where hope was rarely grown, A man stood firm, a voice alone— With words that moved like rivers wide, He carved a dream the world could ride.

He dreamed of hills where children play, Of justice dawning with the day, Where hands once chained would rise and build, A promise kept, a vow fulfilled.

He did not raise his voice for war, But sang of love from every shore. He bore no sword, he cast no stone, Yet toppled hate with truth alone.

“Remember your dreams,” the silence cries, As echoes climb the morning skies. His dream still walks through every street— In every soul it finds its beat.

A sea of faces, bold and true, Still march where roses push on through. Their roots entwined with all he gave— The courage taught, the path he paved.

So when the night seems long and cold, Recall the dreamer, brave and bold. His dream’s not dead—it breathes in you, In every just and fearless view.