Albert Einstein

He peered into the shape of space, Where time was not a steady face, But curved and bent by mass and might— He gave the world a deeper light. He dreamed of clocks on moving trains, Of falling men and light that strains, Of stars that whispered time’s delay, While Newton's laws fell into gray. But how he longed to see the thread, The quantum ghost within the spread— The dance of chance, the field unseen, Where particles shift in the machine. Einstein, with chalk in trembling hand, Could sketch the shape of spacetime's land, But missed the song of virtual skies— Where gravity and quanta rise. No hadron smashed, no atom split, No silicon to guide his wit. His visions vast, yet bound by tools, A prophet walking through old schools. He doubted dice, dismissed the haze, Yet time would alter physics' gaze. Some entered just to prove him wrong, To find the crack, to strike the gong. But mock him not—he saw so far Beyond the reach of where we are. His error was a poet’s leap, A faith too strong, a dream too deep. And now we surf the quantum foam, Black holes and strings define our home. Yet all we build—each truth, each sign— Stands on the back of Einstein. So let them try to break his frame, His questions burn, though not his name. Technology may shift the night, But he remains: the guiding light.