when the aliens arrived
they were fascinated by trees
and the pages they made in books
they would turn at a touch but
blow in the wind to
any old place in a
bedlam of plot
this wasn’t the device of an advanced race
the aliens decided — it was
backwardness! and the
stories, oh the stories
these were a rude gothic people
some of whom left up the toilet seat or
couldn’t parallel park or
ran from lovers on the flimsiest of grounds
all of the aliens wept when
after Catherine’s funeral
Isabella left Heathcliff
how could this species evolve?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Of course aliens eschew this planet. For the reasons you cited, and hundreds more. Thanks for sharing your poem, Denya, I enjoyed it