ＭＡＴＥＲＩＡＬＳ ⭐ （ ＰＲＯＦＩＬＥ ）

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.

III. THE FIRE SERMON

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ＭＡＴＥＲＩＡＬＳ ⭐ （ ＴＨＲＥＡＤＴＲＡＣＫＥＲ ）

I remember our childhood days
when life was easy
and math problems hard.
Mom would help us with our homework
and dad was not at home
but at work.
After our chores,
we’d go to the old fort museum
with clips in our hair and pure joy in our hearts.

I REMEMBER OUR CHILDHOOD DAYS

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ＭＡＴＥＲＩＡＬＳ ⭐ （ ＶＩＳＵＡＬＯＳＩＴＩＥＳ ）

Tears, idle tears
I know not what they mean
Tears from the depths of some devine despair
Rise in the heart,
and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

THE PRINCESS

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