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lirik lagu t.s. eliot - landscapes, east coker

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so here i am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
because one has only learnt to get the better of words
for the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
one is no longer disposed to say it, and so each venture
is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
with shabby equipment always deteriorating
in the general mess of imprecision of feeling
undisciplined squads of emotion. and what there is to conquer
by strength and submission, has already been discovered
once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
to emulate—but there is no competition—
there is only the fight to recover what has been lost
and found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
that seem unpropitious. but perhaps neither gain nor loss
for us, there is only the trying. the rest is not our business
old men ought to be explorers
here and there does not matter
we must be still and still moving
into another intensity
for a further union, a deeper communion
through the dark cold and empty desolation
the wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
of the petrel and the porpoise. in my end is my beginning


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