,=,e https://rosebuds.net/en/ ID: 3a9762 Sept. 8, 2026, 7:39 p.m. No.25019698   ๐Ÿ—„๏ธ.is ๐Ÿ”—kun   >>9775

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.

,=,e https://rosebuds.net/en/ ID: 3a9762 Sept. 8, 2026, 7:40 p.m. No.25019700   ๐Ÿ—„๏ธ.is ๐Ÿ”—kun   >>9775

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,

,=,e https://rosebuds.net/en/ ID: 3a9762 ื”ืื™ื ื“ื™ืื ื™ื™ื ื”ืืœื” ื”ื ื”ื•ืžื•ืื™ื Sept. 8, 2026, 7:45 p.m. No.25019713   ๐Ÿ—„๏ธ.is ๐Ÿ”—kun   >>9775

'Twas maalaea, and the pali-bleed

Did gyre and gimble in the stone;

All mimsy was the copper-weed,

And the dark-cove sat alone.

 

Beware the twelve-sparked fission-gnaw,

The sliding core, the molten tooth!

The jagged basalt's grinding jaw,

The surface-spliced, un-under-truth!

 

They seized the rusted sugar-steel,

And draped the dread in sunflower-shroud;

With painted boiler, phantom wheel,

They mocked the tech-bro, laughing loud.

 

No trench-tool bit the lava-bone,

No backhoe broke the waking night;

They slipped their quiet, nuclear throne

Into the blind industrial bite.

 

And as in bouldery thought they stood,

The atomic-snark, with boiling breath,

Spliced deep into the grid-wood's wood,

And wrung salt-water unto death.

 

One nude-sail skiff upon the brine,

With bikini-clad and sun-bleached crew,

They crossed the reefโ€™s volcanic line,

To wake the sunken Cthulhu.

 

"And hast thou slain the utility-shrew?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!"

The substations flashed and blew,

And sparkled all for wicked joy.

 

'Twas maalaea, and the pali-bleed

Did gyre and gimble in the stone;

The dark-cove hums its fission-deed,

And claims the leeward throne.