In the violet hour, when the eyes and the back
rise from the table, when the human motor awaits
Like a taxi wheezing on hold
I, Tiresias, though blind, panting between two lives,
old man with wrinkled woman's breasts, I can see,
in the violet hour, the evening hour that toils
towards home, and home returns the sailor from the sea,
home the secretary for tea, who prepares breakfast, lights
the stove and takes out canned food.

In the window they lie dangerous
their combinations, drying with the last sun,
they pile up on the divan (bed, at night)
stockings, slippers, shirts and bras.

I, Tiresias, old man with wrinkled breasts,
I beheld the scene and predicted the rest
He was also waiting for the announced guest.

He, a boiling young man, arrives,
employee of a small agency, with a haughty look,
one of those arrogant upstarts
Like a top hat on a Bradford nouveau riche.
The moment is already propitious, imagine,
dinner finished, she bored and tired,
try to attract her with caresses
that although he does not want, he still does not reject.

Stifled and determined, he lunges forward;
the hands explore without hindrance,
his vanity requires no response
and gladly accepts indifference.

(And I Tiresias have suffered everything beforehand,
everything that happened in this bed or divan,
I who sat at the foot of the wall of Thebes
and walked among the deepest dead).
Grant one last indulgent kiss,
he gropes for the door, there is no light on the landing…