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?

W B YEATS 1920.

Here is my updated version of Yeats masterpiece;

THE SECOND SECOND COMING

Scrolling and scrolling in the tightening feed
The user cannot see the algorithm;
Truth falls apart; the signal cannot hold;
Mere outrage floods the world,
The deepfake tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of reason is deleted;
The wise retreat to silence, while the trolls
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Second Coming’s near.
The Second Second Coming! Just as thought takes form
A vast meme out of Cloud Consciousness
Flickers on every screen: somewhere in data-streams
A shape with bot-like logic and a human face,
A gaze optimized, pitiless as code,
Is parsing its slow judgments, while all around it
Spin ghosts of the indignant cancelled voices.
The buffer circle hangs—but now I know
That thirty years of restless, wired sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a notification,
And what slick beast, its hour come round at last,
Logs in from Silicon to be reborn?