On this, his day, there’s this to say:
The fight he fought is still a fray
And too few children get to play
With unlike people, or to pray,
And too few people get to say
What their hearts bid.

The dream persists, if with delay,
Despite what hateful voices say
As they seek to incite the fray
And bloody make the game they play
As they their better selves betray,
Such as they have.