O iron soul, whose fists defied all time,
Whose gaze could still the tempest in its course,
Now laid to rest beyond the mortal climb,
The world feels lesser, robbed of such a force.
No roundhouse strike shall echo through the air,
No legend stride where lesser men would fall;
The silence grows where once was fervent glare,
A shadow cast upon the hearts of all.
Yet death, though bold, cannot unmake thy name,
For myths are wrought in deeds that will not fade;
In whispered jest and tales of endless fame,
Thy might in memory shall be remade.
So rest, great soul, though mortal breath is done,
Thy legend lives, eternal as the sun.