I held a spark within my hand, to help, to carve, to mend,
A tool for mines, for tunnels deep, to help the earth transcend.
But flames don’t ask the hearts they touch, and war took what I gave—
A name once meant for healing hands now whispered in the grave.
They called me merchant of the end, not builder of the way,
And every boom that shook the ground stole light from what I’d say.
I dreamed of better, brighter days, of safety, not of pain—
Yet sorrow bloomed in quiet nights like ever-falling rain.
But I still dream in silence now,
That kindness finds its place.
If hands can hurt, they also heal—
In time, in thought, in grace.
And what I leave behind, I hope,
Brings peace in every face.
So here’s a gift not made of stone, nor fire, nor sound, nor dust—
But hope wrapped up in knowledge shared, in learning, peace, and trust.
I meant to build, not break the world—remember me that way,
A man who tried, and with his heart, still gives a prize today.