She fell like fire through the sky,
A comet’s scream, a mother’s cry.

Her world — red stars and crystal stone —
Now dust and ash. She stands alone.

A child once, in a dying dome,
She watched her kin turn smoke and bone.

The towers cracked, the silence bled—
No time for tears, no last words said.

And now, beneath this foreign light,
She glows with strength, a solar blight.

The yellow sun sings in her veins,
But power can't unmake the pain.

They call her goddess, angel, flame,
A myth reborn with no true name.

She lifts their cities, saves their kind,
Yet leaves her own far, far behind.

Their world is soft, their hearts unscarred,
They laugh too loud, they breathe too hard.

Their skies are wrong, their moon is near—
And no one speaks the language dear.

She learns their ways, their food, their tongue,
But mourns each word lost from the young.

Who once ran laughing in red fields,
Now ghost-echoes on shattered shields.

They see her fly, a streak of grace,
But never glimpse the hollow space.

Where lullabies once held her warm,
Before she wore this blazing form.

A temple built on grief and flame,
She answers prayers, not her own name.

A hero, yes — but not a whole,
Just fractured starlight in a soul.

And when the yellow sun has set,
She kneels beneath the stars and lets.

The tears fall free, without a sound—
For all she’s gained, what was not found.