Sunday: the same ceremony at the same hour;
Typical faces of this day of rest;
Hats, borsalinos, the same meeting place.
This weekly ritual of self-deception
Disrupts your spiritual mood
With this forced, reluctant attention.
Evening – the lights go on, tea boils on the fire,
Among children in the street, a ball is thrown high;
Boredom cannot quite gather itself
Against this absurd conspiracy.
And Life, with hair grayed by hope,
Faded, washed-out, yet genteel,
Wearing a hat, gloves, a cigarette in hand;
Dressed in a suit, silent, without plea,
(But somehow impatient with delay)
Waits at the door of the Absolute to enter.
