There's nothing spherical about the space
In which innumerable web-logs all appear.
It's just Electronville, the selfsame place
That harbors radio, lightning, and fear.
A universe of language every day
Big-bangs itself into hyper-existence
On billions of screens-a cosmic spray
Of texts that is galactically immense.
The Web is actually a firmament
Of pixelated light. In fact, these blogs
Aren't blogs so much as wee lights meant
To light a billion mental strolls through bogs
Of collective and individual thought:
This is what Gutenberg and Gates hath wrought.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem