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I was having a wee read of this Yeats' beauty the other week on the 100th Anniversary of the Easter Rising, and the line 'A terrible beauty is born' (what a line) kept coming back to me, so I noted this poem down in response
'A terrible beauty is born',
The incisive line of a lifetime
Splinters cracks in generations,
Pulls our arms back with naked chests,
Erodes self-inflated explanations
Of prominence and of life,
Of death and inbetween.
Of purpose and of courage,
And just how we vent our spleen.
Over and over it rolls through my mind,
Rolls under my tongue,
Heaves it's way to the light.
Fires pierced blue skies
And ambitious illuminations,
Calls us out to step up
And announce our degradations.
Are lifetimes changed with the gun or the pen?
Can you change lifetimes when your own is hemmed in
By a fragile skin and cracked plaster walls
Of a hopeful heart that denied wake-up calls
And dreamt on.
'A terrible beauty is born.'