NIKOLA TESLA
You arrived
with thunder in your lungs.
And left us
with light in our hands.
Your mother said
you would be fire.
And you became
illumination.
I see you
in radio waves.
In phone signals.
In every trembling bulb
that refuses darkness.
They used you.
They copied you.
They buried you in silence.
But genius
cannot stay buried.
Edison took your labor.
Marconi took your glory.
Yet history
has a slow memory—
and a sharp tongue.
You chose solitude
over applause.
Thought
over wealth.
Vision
over comfort.
You fed birds
as if feeding ideas.
And your mind
learned to fly.
Now your name
moves electric dreams.
Not because of fame—
but because
truth travels.
You died poor.
But the world
became rich.
That is the curse
of prophets.
They light the way—
then walk it
alone.
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