The Trump Coming

(with apologies to W. B. Yeats)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The eagle preys on the pilgrim.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The hate-filled 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 Trump’s Coming is at hand.
Trump’s Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Middle America
Troubles my sight: from the depths of a rusted wasteland
A shape of malevolence with the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its vapid lips, while all about it
Reel shadows of hooded avengers.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That years of democratic sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by an orange grin.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Gropes towards Washington to be born?



Author: Paul Kleiman

Academic, researcher, writer, musician, gardner, narrowboat owner, dog owner, cat servant

One thought on “The Trump Coming”

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