They came in the slumbering heart of the hill, When the rivers were black and the wind was still, Through fields where the crickets held their song, Where the barn’s dark ribs stretched lean and long.

The stars above, sharp as a blade, Bent low where their nameless craft was laid, A wound in the air, bright as a scream, Splitting the folds of the night’s deep seam.

They walked like mist, but their weight was vast, Time folded and buckled wherever they passed, Their eyes held skies no man could bear, An endless void, an eternal stare.

The oak trees whispered their brittle fear, Their roots pulled back as the shapes drew near, I stood, a shadow, bound by their sight, My breath a prisoner of infinite night.

They spoke no word but sang in my mind, A hymn too strange for humankind, The stars they wore like a crown of flame, And I was called, though not by my name.

Inside, the air was sharp and thin, A sterile womb that pulled me in, Their touch was soft, but their will was steel, They peeled me open to see and feel.

I rose unbidden, as if drawn by thread, My body floated where angels dread, Through fields that wept with dew so cold, Toward their craft, its hunger bold.

They sifted my thoughts like grains of sand, Tore through my dreams with a steady hand, The laughter of children, the ache of the sea, Each memory taken was no longer free.

I begged for the morning, I begged for release, But the stars had bound me, their leash a piece, Of something vast, beyond my ken, Not for the hearts or hands of men.

Then, as the light split the eastern veil, They cast me out, hollow and pale, The grass was warm where the frost had lain, But nothing on earth would be the same.

For I have seen the mouths of the sky, Where no man ventures, where gods must die, And in my heart, their song still plays, A hymn of the stars that stole my days.

O earth, O home, your touch is kind, But no warmth can quiet my fractured mind. They left their mark, a brand of fire, And carried me far on their alien lyre.

I walk now a ghost in the skin of a man, Haunted by whispers of their dark plan, I dream of their craft and its blinding gleam—Was it real, or am I the dream?