I, Thyresias, Old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest
I, too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man, arrives.
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shout and the crying
Prison, place.
And I Thyresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same grave or bed
I, who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.
