Gaia coming out of her closeted space -
leaves not a trace of an arms' race,
which blasted out of its place
in disgrace.
She's coming out of her shell
to break a godspell
long ago surmounted, from whence she fell -
below her own bowel's flaming hell.
To cold darkness against wander sky,
She now plays with celestine Angels high. Tracing around Milky eyes
who delights his Way to see them fly!
Gaia sings her songs to whales;
never man again, for his tales.
She holds herself up, wearing crescent moon hat with starry veil;
no longer pained, rushed, or stale.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem