In Echo’s Vale, beneath the shadowed moors, A youth once wandered, burdened by harsh spurns. With every step, the stones recited scores Of taunts once thrown, where haunting memory burns.

Cast out and scorned for being not the same, With spirits crushed beneath the weight of jeers, The vale’s cold echo mimicked their cruel game, Yet whispered winds urged him to quell his fears.

Amidst the gales, a lonely violin, Found shattered, near a weeping willow’s shade. He mended strings with trembling, tender skin, And coaxed from sorrow songs sweetly played.

Each note a tear, each melody a plea, The music soared and swept across the land. The vale, once prison, now set his spirit free, Transforming pain with bow held in his hand.

Inspiration drawn from deepest wells of grief, He played until the stars wept in the sky. And those who mocked, now stood in disbelief, As from the depths, he lifted dreams so high.