Upon the edge of twilight’s breath, He whispered softly neath the sky, "I made it," then was swept by death, With stars as tears, his last goodbye. His journey carved through tempest cold, And mountains tall of ancient stone, Each step a story, bold and bold, His pride now echoes, not alone. The winds will sing of victories past, In fields where shadows briefly stay, A soul's soft whisper, deep and vast, "I made it," fading with the day.