Great men are made, not born
Through the endless toil of their own.
The walk not on easy roads,
But tire under heavy loads.
They stood firm whilst others bent,
When faced by the blizzard of commitment.
They held their heads high even in pain,
While others pointed hands in blame.
They walked while others slept,
Waded over swamps of troubles deep,
Swam the river of destiny,
Where but hardships lent the only hand.

But then did they their fruits reap,
Like the triumphant sculptor who etched deep
His very name not on stone,
But on the rocks of time immortal.
Mission fulfilled, he won the hearts of them,
Those who prima facie looked with scorn.
For great men are made, not born
Through the endless toil of their own.