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(Based on a poem by W.B. Yeats) |
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Turning and turning |
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Within the widening gyre |
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The falcon cannot hear the falconer |
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Things fall apart |
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The center cannot hold |
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And a blood dimmed tide |
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Is loosed upon the world |
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Nothing is sacred |
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The ceremony sinks |
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Innocence is drowned |
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In anarchy |
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The best lack conviction |
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Given some time to think |
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And the worst are full of passion |
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Without mercy |
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Surely some revelation is at hand |
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Surely it's the second coming |
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And the wrath has finally taken form |
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For what is this rough beast |
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Its hour come at last |
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Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born |
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Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born |
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Hoping and hoping |
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As if by my weak faith |
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The spirit of this world |
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Would heal and rise |
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Vast are the shadows |
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That straddle and strafe |
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And struggle in the darkness |
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Troubling my eyes |
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Shaped like a lion |
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It has the head of a man |
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With a gaze as blank |
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And pitiless as the sun |
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And it's moving its slow thighs |
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Across the desert sands |
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Through dark indignant |
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Reeling falcons |
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Surely some revelation is at hand |
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Surely it's the second coming |
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And the wrath has finally taken form |
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For what is this rough beast |
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Its hour come at last |
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Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born |
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Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born |
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Raging and raging |
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It rises from the deep |
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Opening its eyes |
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After twenty centuries |
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Vexed to a nightmare |
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Out of a stony sleep |
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By a rocking cradle |
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By the Sea of Galilee |
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Surely some revelation is at hand |
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Surely it's the second coming |
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And the wrath has finally taken form |
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For what is this rough beast |
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Its hour come at last |
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Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born |
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Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born |
