We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.