He wept for no more worlds—and then the world wept for him.
In Babylon, the lions roared. In Greece, the altars dimmed.
The sun itself seemed hesitant to rise.
He did not pass—he ascended into legend.

Born of Macedon, heir of Achilles, student of Aristotle,
He carried Hellas on his shoulders, and the stars in his wake.
He was crowned not by vote, but by vision.
Where he walked, history bent like grass to wind.

He crossed deserts, rivers, mountains—not as invader, but as flame.
He broke empires and spoke to oracles.
He built Alexandria in dust and order from fire.
And men followed him not in fear, but awe.

His death was wrapped in silence.
Poison, fever, prophecy—none dared speak too loudly.
For to bury him was to confess that the world had grown smaller.
And none were ready to inherit it.

His sarcophagus shone brighter than thrones.
Even in death, generals knelt. Philosophers wept.
The empire he forged shattered like glass—
but his name spread wider than its borders ever did.

On this day, say nothing of yourself.
Say his name: Alexander.
Then whisper: “The world once had a king.”
And let silence follow—for he needs no echo.