She does not belong to this planet.

 

She descended through the gravity waves of a bare star,

and landed—not gracefully—but reluctantly,

in a terrain Earth dares to call its own.

 

Her body was not chosen—it was assigned.

Red and white, stitched like unfinished skin.

Her armor is not for war, but for thought containment.

Her costume—a patchwork of lost dialects.

 

Each blink of hers creates a new orbit,

a glyph pressed into the dark.

 

She walks between water and stone,

but has never truly landed.

 

She is an envoy without a message.

An echo with no origin.

 

She dances through the night

  to verify if she still exists in light’s memory.