("Turning and Turning the widening gyre,
The falcon cannot hear the falconer")
Things fall apart, the center does not stand,
Though this be my fault, yet not of my hand;
And O mother, damned thou art, the beastly sun tanned,
The greens, I see turning to mounds of sand.
Seldom does the cuckoo sing, on the branches green,
And seldom from the meandering river, flow sweet water clean;
It was not the picture I saw, the seen scene,
Minds of the new age, the mean human machine.
That slimy, smoky, greasy monster of tin,
With ferrous jaws, a shiny metallic skin;
Feasting on your dear's lives with a crafty grin,
Happy, happy, he was, for the loose and his win.
And alas! My fate, I see no blossoms bloom,
Mother, barren thou art, your empty womb;
Sadness lurking, with a misty gloom,
The day of death, it is, the day of doom.
I could have stopped him when he was child,
Should have stopped him, when he was a child;
Though as boy, he was meek and mild,
And how could I know, he'd turn so wild.
I saw not his willy hands nor his heart cold,
Yet all warned me, stop him, they told;
I didn't, thought he was growing just being bold.
And now I lament mother, for all humanity's pain,
To mankind, it will remain forever a stain.
Why not did I stop him, Why not?
G.K
