Our era is dying
yet who has killed it?
Have we, who are it?
In the middle of voluted space
its knell has struck.
And in the middle of every atom, which is the same thing,
a tiny bell of conclusion has sounded.
The curfew of our great day
the passing-bell of our way of knowing
the knell of our bald-headed consciousness
the tocsin of this our civilisation.
Who has struck the bell?
Who rang the knell?
Not I, not you,
yet all of us.
At the core of space the final knell
of our era has struck, and it chimes
in terrible rippling circles between the stars
till it reaches us, and its vibrations shatter us
each time they touch us.
And they keep on coming, with greater force
striking us, the vibrations of our finish.
And all that we can do
is to die the amazing death
with every stroke, and go on
till we are blank.
And yet, as we die, why should not our vast mechanised day die with us,
so that when we are re-born, we can be born into a fresh world.
For the new word is Resurrection.
