Turning and turning in the
widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the
falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre
cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon
the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is
loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is
drowned;
The best lack all conviction,
while the worst
Are full of passionate
intensity.
Surely some revelation is at
hand;
Surely the Second Coming is
at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are
those words out
When a vast image out of
Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere
in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and
the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as
the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs,
while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant
desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but
now I know
That twelvescore years of
mission creep
Were hexed in primetime by a
Shepard’s fable:
What rowdy zeitgeist, des Zeit nun gekommen
Kreucht,
um geboren zu werden, Bethlehem zu?
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