Ord som er uhyggelig passende på vår samtid. Et beist sleper seg mot Betlehem for å bli født, men det er ikke noen frelser som viser seg denne gangen, nei.
It rises from the deep
Opening its eyes
After twenty centuries
Vexed to a nightmare
Out of a stony sleep
Joni's tekst er selvfølgelig noe omskrevet fra Yeats, men er urolig og sterk. Uhyggelig faktisk.
Surely it's the second coming
And wrath has finally taken form
For what is this rough beast
Its hour come at last
Slouching toward Bethlehem to be born
Ha en rolig søndag hvis du har anledning, i en verden som ryster meg hver eneste dag. Kanskje er det derfor jeg bare sitter her og strikker? Og tenker. Og lytter. Og så til den opprinnelige teksten:
The Second Coming
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.
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?
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?
WILLIAM
BUTLER YEATS
Den som vil lese litt mer om Yeats, finner en interessant analyse av diktet her.
Og her er Joni Mitchell som synger. Verdt å høre på.
Innlegg
