|
Turning and turning
|
Within the widening gyre
|
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
|
Things fall apart
|
The center 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 by 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 blank
|
And pitiless as the sun
|
And it's moving its slow thighs
|
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
|
|
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
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
SLOUCHING TOWARD BETHLEHEM
|
| Joni Mitchell |
