Turning and turning in the widening gyre,

the falcon cannot hear the falconer

Things fall apart, the center cannot hold

And 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 than some vast image out of spiritus mundi

troubles my site. [Somewhere in sands of the desert]

A shape with lion's body and head of a man

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun

Begins moving its slow thighs while all about it reel shadows of the indignant desert birds

The darkness drops again, but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep have been vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle

And what rough beast its hour come round at last slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I didn't have any new words to say, so instead, I transcribed William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming" from memory. Did pretty good, too. (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming). Betcha didn't know I could do that?

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