He was my idol. 

Only voice and brush stroke, he shone as a clear light in the darkness of youth. 

Assailed by the uncouth, he put iron in my hands and lit a fire to stoke.

Now quiet is his voice, empty is his cowl.

Lost is our choice, and casting openly foul.

But your voice is everlasting, faint as it is. 

Your memory undying, Your Voice never Fading.