In a quiet village wrapped in misty greys, Lived a boy who wandered through his lonely days. Mocked and scorned, he found no place to stand, Each laugh, a sting, dealt by a harsher hand.

But in his walks through fields of whispering corn, He found a flute, old, worn, and tattered, torn. With gentle breath, he played a simple tune, That danced with winds beneath the silver moon.

His notes were soft, yet carried strong and clear, Songs of hope that only hearts could hear. The very winds that chilled him to the bone, Now carried forth the beauty he had sown.

As seasons turned, his melodies took flight, And reached the ears of others in the night. They saw not who, but felt the tender grace, Of notes that wrapped their sorrows in embrace.