was a cloudy night,
Cloudy and quiet.
I had just said my prayers,
As I lay to sleep.

My head touched the pillow,
The last thing I remember.
Now, I stand in a hall of immortals,
Where paintings of mighty men line the walls,
Their names etched in stone,
Faces gleaming, covered in gold.
Each one tells a story,
Of men who, while on earth,
Achieved greatness,
Overcoming insurmountable odds.
Their triumphs serve as beacons of hope,
Guiding the generations to come.
Their legacy, a light for those still striving.

I wander through this hallowed hall,
Feeling small, like a child,
Before these men of legend.
They are giants, and I am just beginning.
Yet, in their gaze, I see a spark,
A glimpse of what could be—
My face, someday, among them.
A beacon of my own, shining for those who follow.

But this is no dream.
It is a calling.
A promise to strive daily,
To rise against the odds,
Until the day my name, too,
Is carved in stone.
Until I, too, stand immortal.