Long long time ago, 
a sacred store appeared, 
to greet us with
love beads, 
bell bottoms, 
and flowing
silhouettes.
Beginning with, 
'the gathering 
of the tribes, '
and ending with
summer of Love, 
the lost generation, 
were eight miles high 
and not coming down.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    