In the quiet of the morning’s light,
He stands, a figure resolute and still,
With eyes that hold the depth of night,
And hands that forge of iron will.

Beneath the armor of the world’s demand,
A heart that beats with tender grace,
He carries dreams like grains of sand,
And wears compassion on his face.

The weight of words he seldom speaks,
Yet in his silence, wisdom blooms,
For every tear that softly leaks,
A garden grows in hidden rooms.

In every step, a story told,
Of battles fought and victories won,
A masculine warmth, both strong and bold,
A gentle strength, like the rising sun.