Gaia

The Mother wails ,
The Mother flails.
The world in her cloudy azure womb;
Stubbornly encasing itself in doom.
It burns in her, making her weep,
The Mother, the dear Mother, maddened in grief.
None would quench these fires, tears none that rain,
The Mother’s helplessness shall be her sung-of shame.
Enraged she whips! Fiery bolting whips;
Her wrath a fury, an unending storm that grips.
The sun shines, giving the Mother warmth to calm,
She repents, she regrets, her child she tried to harm.
One so beautiful, a child she bore,
One like which she’ll birth nevermore.
A child she loved, a child she cared and always provided for.
It grew, she taught it living, but it betrayed her all the same
For it grew fonder of material, feeding its unquenchable hunger for name.
It digs her like maggots through rotten flesh,
Her signs, her warnings, still hanging about, fresh.
She created waterfalls for it to play in,
Seas and oceans to sail through, sails swaying.
But it’s swatting them away,
Melting and flooding the way.
The way that taught it surviving,
Now it poisons all, how conniving.
Some peek at stars and proudly proclaim,
The Mother will die, and the child’s to blame.
“The Mother will die, and she will die soon,
Be it a million years from now, or a turn of moon.”

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Gaia the mother and personification of Earth.

— Praty

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