The Second Birth/The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats
by COD Magazine
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: a waste of desert sand;
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
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Image via tonyb
things fall apart but they never leave my heart, recursion (for no reason), biblical, WBY, the birth of the modern, WW1, every job ever, it’s very difficult to find images to go with this poem without hitting it on the head and killing it, rough beasts, poems that could be movies, things I recite when I want to remember how difficult it is to be human, my other image for this is a horsehead nebula, in memory of Keets and Yeats who were two lovely budgies, agony is ecstasy and vice versa, indignant desert birds are the least of your fears, the lion is the lamb.
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