"What if the tales we tell of distant stars,

Of ships descending, lights that pierced the night,

Are echoes, not of visits from afar,

But buried truths obscured from inner sight?

Perhaps we are the aliens, long ago,

A vanguard sent, a colony adrift,

Our memories fractured, scattered to and fro,

Like shattered glass, a heritage bereft."

We walk this earth, and claim it as our own,

Yet feel a hollow longing, deep inside,

A sense of exile, utterly alone,

As if a home we cannot quite define resides.

Loosen the skin, the layers built with time,

Will ancient coding whisper in our veins?

Will dormant genes awaken, in their prime,

To show us landscapes on forgotten plains?

And if we find the truth, so long concealed,

The source from which our human story sprang,

What then? Will wounds of ages past be healed?

Or will the knowledge only bring more pang?

A paradox of origin and fate,

To be the sought, and be the ones who sought,

To find ourselves, arriving far too late,

Upon a planet we ourselves have wrought.

In every star that twinkles in the dark,

A story waits, a mirror of our own,

To trace our lineages through cosmic paths,

As blood and light combine in unity.

Perhaps the tales of old are maps to us,

And in their echoes, we may find the way

To recognize the sparks that glow within,

Awakening the alien in our hearts.