T.S. Eliot—The Waste Land Part V. (What The Thunder Said)

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped, in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficient spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumors
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
Damyata: the boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with the sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon a shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down, falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che li affina
Quando fiam ut chelidon
– O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’aquitaine à la tour abolie
These statements I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

By Mark Newton

Born in 1981, live in the UK. I write about strange things.