In the heart of tender youth, Brison dwelled, At twenty-two, with dreams both vast and bold, But the sickle's bite, a chronic tale upheld, In shadows deep, his whispered stories told. He loved with fervor rare, and labored more, A warrior in his war, silent and true, Yet under Valentine's tawny skies, hearts tore, When love's embrace slipped past his hopeful view. He wore his difference like a valiant crest, Defying norms with quiet, steadfast grace, A smile his shield and mask against unrest, As silent sorrow etched upon his face. On such a day, the world lost one who fought, Yet in his struggle, all too late we see, In countless hearts, his spirit’s battles caught— For we are Brison, seeking to be free.