In a kingdom of shadows, on the edge of silence,

  A child wandered, burdened with a sentence.

  His eyes burned with strange, unearthly tears,

  From which stones sprang forth—crystals of despair.

  His first cry birthed a fallen gem,

  A crimson ruby, drowned in pain’s stem.

  Each sob he could not hold inside

  Became a jewel, a shard where sorrow would reside.

  They feared him, this cursed child,

  For his tears were treasures and yet reviled.

  Men craved the brilliance of his luminous weeping,

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  While he, on his knees, prayed for an end to his searing suffering.

  His small hands, dust-stained and frail,

  Held gems that bore his tragic tale.

  Topazes of regret, opals of loss,

  Each stone a fragment of his prison’s cross.

  One day, they caged him in golden bars,

  Far from the world, his tears turned to scars.

  Merchants of misery came to behold,

  Each fallen drop a revelation untold.

  But the child, broken, became a flame,

  A blaze consuming his soul and name.

  He stood tall, hands reaching toward the skies,

  And his tears ceased in a solemn rise.

  The stones turned to glittering dust,

  An echo of stars beneath the night’s crust.

  He left the cage, leaving emptiness profound,

  And silence marked where he was once found.

  Since then, they say beneath misty skies,

  Glimmering stones can be found where destiny lies.

  Yet none can say if the child lingers still,

  Or if he became a shadow, guarding treasures at will.