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 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? W.B. YEATS
Em vez de andar com a "poetry", talvez fosse bom que contabilizassse quanto custa ao Estado um espectador com vistas mais as sanefas do S. Carlos, mas já percebi que o seu negócio não são números...
Caro anónimo das 10:37, obrigado(a) pela resposta. Sabe que só pelo que respondeu já estou esclarecido(a) Continue que vai "muito bem" ... atenciosamente