Chapter Text
The Second Coming
By William Butler Yeats
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?
T'ad'yc Olar'la; ra Yaimpa
Rudu bal rudu trarud ori'e
Ne'susulu galaar galaar'verd;
Kebise cha'trattok'o; dar'tayli karyai;
Shi'ram'shuk ne'mirci uvet,
Tal'slaat'la sho'laam ne'mirci, gayiyla
Daju'nara be'nakar'mi kyr'haalu sho'chur;
Jatnese dar'nasreshy'a, dushne
Shereshoy yaihi'li.
Vercopa, tegaanal olaro;
Vercopa, yaimpa olaro.
Yaimpa! jorhaa'i shi'ik
Ori’sur'tayl ha'manda
Sur'a n'haa'tayl: dayn o'r haa'suum'vhekad nakar
Kebi baar be'strill balyc kovir be'ada,
Be’haa’tayli vhetyc bal teroch geb'ka'ra,
Laa'mote udes'shaadla, rud
Prudiise briiruda b'skirla haa'suum'senaar.
Werde tug'diryci; al'kar'tayli
Sim'ad'eta'olan be'choruyc nuhoyi
R'ishuki bah kyr'nuhoy eso'eso be'buycika,
Tion chavla'ulik, parla'nara mar'e olar,
Keldab sha'moti bah gote?
Second Coming; or Returning (Back-translation)
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The hawk cannot hear the hawker;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Sheer upheaval is released on the world,
A blood-muddied tide is released; everywhere
The ceremony of unknowing breaths its last under the water;
The best lack all conviction, the worst
Are full of shereshoy.
Rescue must be coming;
They must be returning,
Returning! Only just spoken
When a vast image out of manda
Draws my gaze: Out in desert sands unknown
A thing with the body of a strill and the head of a person,
With gaze flat and merciless as the closest star
Moves its thighs slowly, around
Circle the shadows of feuding desert birds.
Darkness falls again; but know that
Twenty centuries’ of stony sleep
Were disturbed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
What rough animal, its time finally here,
Slouches towards the city to be born?