He stands on a balcony

ten thousand light years distant,
and looks out upon the cityscape
as the binary stars are setting,
the sky turning a deeper shade
of magenta as the shadows encroach.
He's wondering if anyone
beyond his world exists, and
whether any other species
has ever
spoken
thought
calculated
imagined
argued
meditated
built
created
fantasized
planned
anticipated
remembered
hoped
struggled
explored
laughed
loved
or written.
His fear is that the answer is No,
that his people are the only beacon
in an indifferent, all but eternal ocean.
And it fills him with despair
that perhaps nowhere else
has life erupted into mind,
and that nowhere else has
the unconscious
brought forth
the conscious.
If only I could let him know...
If only he could let me know...