From the asphalt heart, a scream
a whisper of terror, a child’s plea,
dangling from a Parisian glass balcony
when, Mamadou, your shadow rose,
against the indifference of such looming tragedy

You were not born of marble, nor of gold,
but of the earth’s rough hands,
a son of Mali, a brother of the wind,
who carried the sun in his sinews.
I have seen the workers, the fishermen,
the solitary poets by the sea,
but never a man so swift
climbing four floors of despair by hand

The French verandas, cold iron and empty air,
became steps for your audacious feet,
each grip a prayer, each reach a victory,
beneath the abyss beckoning
The child, a tiny robin caught in the storm,
saw a mountain rise, a salvation,
and in your steady hand, a universe of safety,
a cradle woven from courage.
The world, with its ancient eyes, watched,
and for a moment, forgot its haste, its
greed, seeing in your ascent, a forgotten
truth:
that humanity, too, can soar
Mamadou Gassama, man of the rooftops, of the sky,
you are the testament to what we can become,
when love, fierce and pure, takes flight.
May your hands, strong and sure,
always find a path, a holding,
and may your name echo, a sung legend,
wherever a heart beats for
another.