The Second Coming

Discussion in 'Burke's Bastion' started by Bluto, Jul 1, 2016.

  1. Bluto Drunken lout

    Member Since:
    Apr 22, 2010
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    The Second Coming

    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 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?

    W.B. Yeats
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  2. Georg Schoenerer Der Judenkenner

    Member Since:
    Feb 13, 2015
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    Oy Vey Up North
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    All pass by
    The frozen stone that seals
    The master singer, last of an old breed
    That burned the air with images
    Of birth and life, all preludes to
    Our end-time themes, the counterpoint
    You played 50 well, the strain
    That fused the singer and the song.

    Now you are gone these fifty years
    And cold eyes stare
    Not at the headstone but the stream
    That trickles through the dust and drys
    Short of the sea. And we,
    The spectres haunting your great tune,
    Step to the stage and hoarsely croak the moon.

    Swords unsheathe, the air thins out
    A martial air now fills our dreams:
    The soldier beckons to the sage,
    The center crumbles, and our days
    Rage at the nightmare you had seen.
    You are the singer, spokesman ofour soul,
    And we the weasels, scattering in a hole.
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