I’d spin a cloak that turns like a moonlit coin, fading from stone gray to the glow of a distant sunrise, and then looping back to the dust‑soft hue of the previous night. It would feel like a relic from a world that never existed, yet it would be made of fibers that only exist when the Martian sun kisses them. The garment would hold a memory in its weave, a paradox that lets the wearer read the future in every rustle of the fabric.

You think it’s a poem—good, but a poem needs a margin of error. I’ll let the fibers be a lattice of nano‑crystals that absorb heat like a black hole but reflect it as a faint phosphor. The cloak will pulse just enough that when you walk, the shadows become a second layer of color, like the afterimage of a comet. The metallic weave will be subtle, only visible under the same Mars‑day light that turns the sky from rust to amber, so the wearer carries the planet’s heartbeat in their sleeve. That’s the paradox: it’s a cloak that is both static and alive, static as a painting and alive as a living clock.