Alien

In a quiet corner of a restless night,
a visitor lands, a glinting star form—
his tongue is not a whine of fright but a song,
and his eyes, blue mirrors of a distant pond.

He speaks in a rhythm that crawls the land,
not with words but with pulses that ripple;
each syllable a colour, a sense, a breeze—
an unfurling of thoughts that sprorg in the mind.

We watch in awe all the planet’s pulse,
the way he listens to our drifting speech,
his silence a gentle rebuttal, a salute,
his gaze a gift that holds the sun’s reach.

And in the hush, I learn that we are not alone,
our humour, our plight, our hope and our roguish moon.
His gentle, open‑handed universe is a mirror:
we’re all alone, together yet forever.