rubbings and weavings

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 drownedThe best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.Surely some revelation is at handSurely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus MundTroubles 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?

@eeemolee / emilygracehall97@gmail.com

E. G. HALL