Grit in the blood and smoke in the air,
Truths from his lips cut through the despair,
Eyes that have seen what others would fear,
Words like a storm, relentless and clear.
In Harlem’s heart, he forged his own way,
Lit by the fight, by night and by day,
Baring his soul, his rage, and his pain,
Through every word, he danced in the rain.
He spoke of love in times full of hate,
Challenged the world, reshaping its fate,
A beacon bright in the darkest night,
His voice a sword, his mind a fierce light.
Baldwin, the fire that will never die,
Under his rain, we learn how to fly.
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