The notions of this old and honored piece of writing capture the feeling the last twelve-month has have left me with:

                                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?

William Butler Yeats, "Second Coming"

Regards,

A