Yeats: una precuela del apocalipsis

Si la gente leyera poesía como ve series de televisión o traga tweets, no habría nadie más eficaz, ni más peligroso, que un buen poeta para imbuir sentimientos en el lector. Creo, por ejemplo, que este es el poema más catastrófico jamás escrito, una especie de precuela del Apocalipsis, la inminencia del fin: «y qué áspera bestia, su hora al fin llegada / se arrastra hacia Belén para nacer». Ahora da casi miedo leerlo. [Sí, bueno, se me olvidaba: William Butler Yeats.]


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.

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 the 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?