The thunder clouds gathered o'er Monaco’s bay,
When the world first beheld how the red car could play.
Through the blinding white spray of the downpour and slip,
The young man from Brazil held the wheel in his grip.
With a fiery spirit and ice in his veins,
Ayrton Senna took flight in the heaviest rains.

He drove on the edge where the mortals would fear,
Chasing ghosts in the cockpit, year after year.
Three crowns of the world he would claim for his own,
In the golden McLaren he built as his throne.
A mystical warrior who prayed to the sky,
Who refused to believe that the heroes could die.

His rivalry burned with a furious flame,
A chess match of speed in a dangerous game.
But the pride of Brazil was a savior to those
Who lived in the slums where the poverty rose.
He gave them his heart, and he gave them his light,
A flash of pure gold in a desperate night.

× × ×

The spring of ninety-four was a shadow of dread,
The paddock was quiet with thoughts of the dead.
For Barrichello had crashed, and Ratzenberger fell,
Turning San Marino to a terrifying hell.
Ayrton stood in the garage, his spirit unstrung,
As the dark bells of caution and destiny rung.

On the first day of May, under clear, heavy skies,
He climbed in the Williams with doubt in his eyes.
The green and yellow helmet was buckled in place,
To lead the great field in a phantom-like race.
The lights flashed to green and the engines roared loud,
As the line of machines tore away from the crowd.

Lap seven arrived, and the speed was sublime,
A desperate struggle with tarmac and time.
At three hundred kilometers, breaking the wind,
The steering column snapped and the universe sinned.
At the Tamburello curve, where the concrete was bare,
The champion’s car drifted out of the air.

× × ×

The impact was thunder, the blue car was rent,
A sudden, cruel silence where energy spent.
The wheel came spinning, a devastating blow,
As the red-and-white flags began weeping below.
The helicopter rose in the Italian sun,
But the race of the master already was done.

Inside the crushed cockpit, untouched by the flame,
They found a small flag that he wished to proclaim:
The banner of Austria, packed in his sight,
To honor his fallen comrade in the light.
The heart of Brazil stopped its beating that day,
As the soul of the rainmaster floated away.

× × ×

A boy from the kart tracks who captured the sun,
A lifetime of lightning in thirty-four run.
He lived for the apex, he died at the lead,
The king of the asphalt, the spirit of speed.
Though the engine is quiet, the track is now bare,
The ghost of the champion still rides on the air.