The Dying of the Light

I watched Donald Trump’s news conference held today, 6th November at 5 am GMT.

The tie had changed from the red of the war god Mars to insipid stripes of indifferent colours, the face had turned from orange to ashen and the voice had become is less strident, even if the demands remained stubbornly the same. His statements rang less true.

Donald Trump is dying in a way Dylan Thomas forecast seventy three years ago.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Prophetic words indeed as the forty-fifth generation of the Father the of the Nation is removed and passes away into (relative) obscurity.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.