In a village on the edge of quiet plains,

  Arrived a child, frail as a fleeting refrain.

  His eyes, vast as the misty horizon,

  Held shadows deep, an abyss to wisen.

  “Who are you, little one?” the elders inquired,

  “I come from the wind, lost and tired,”

  He replied in a voice soft and clear,

  His innocence a mask, his intent severe.

  They welcomed him with bread and warmth,

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  Gave him a bed, gestures heartfelt and kind.

  But beneath each smile the child displayed,

  A seed of doubt silently stayed.

  Neighbors, once united as flowing streams,

  Began to whisper under light’s gleam.

  “Why did she give him more than I?”

  “Is his gaze false? Should we deny?”

  In their homes, shadows crept and grew,

  Laughter faded, hearts withdrew.

  Each word spoken became a spark,

  Igniting flames, disputes stark.

  The child watched, calm and mute,

  A subtle smile, chaos absolute.

  For he was a demon from a distant land,

  A harbinger of discord, by chaos planned.

  When the first stone flew in the morning’s pale light,

  The child vanished, carried by winds out of sight.

  He left behind a shattered village forlorn,

  Ashes of friendship, lives torn.