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