The center crumbles

Things I’ve noticed while slouching toward Bethlehem

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 the Second Coming is at hand

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.

The darkness drops again

Vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

With apologies to William Butler Yeats

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