Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The griffon cannot hear the griffoner;
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 apocalypse is at hand.
Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of quintessence
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 an ancient monarch,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Greyhawk to be born?
Then another vision of the seventh prophet
With strange embers in his eyes.
He said, “In the time of the seventh Fire
New people will emerge. They will retrace their
Steps to find what was left by the side of the trail long ago.
Their steps will take them to the Elders, who they will
Ask to guide them on their journey. But many
Of the Elders will have fallen asleep. They will awaken
To this new time with
Nothing to offer. Some of the Elders will be silent
Out of fear. But most of the Elders will be silent
Because no one will ask anything of them.”