From Rosario’s cradle to the Argentine plain,
A boy born to medicine, to healing the pain,
Young Ernesto set forth on a motorcycle ride,
With the dust on his boots and a country inside.

Through the valleys of Chile, the deserts of gold,
He witnessed a story of suffering unfold,
The miners oppressed and the peasant stripped bare,
By the hunger of empires and lords of despair.

“The world must be healed,” breathed the doctor turned seer,
As the cries of the poor grew too heavy to hear.
No longer a healer of bodies alone,
But a soldier for justice, with steel in his bone.

In the warmth of Havana, where tyranny reigned,
He met with Fidel, and their purpose was chained.
On the waves of the Granma, through tempest and foam,
They sailed for the island to build them a home.

In the Sierra Maestra, through jungle and night,
The “Che” was baptized in the fire of fight.
With a star on his beret, a gun in his hand,
He led the forgotten to reclaim their land.

From Santa Clara’s tracks to the palace’s gate,
They shattered the chains of a corporate state.
A minister, leader, diplomat, and sage,
He wrote of the “New Man” on history’s page.

But the office was small for a spirit so wide,
While the rest of the world was still bleeding outside.
He laid down his titles, his honors, his post,
To fight for the millions who needed him most.

To the Congo’s deep forests, to Bolivia’s height,
He carried the torch of the permanent fight.
Betrayed and surrounded in Yuro’s ravine,
He faced down the end with a spirit serene.

Though the valley fell silent, though the rebel was slain,
The ghost of the Comandante walks in the rain.
A symbol of struggle, of passion and grace,
A star that still shines in the poorest of place.