Hello everybody, I'm back, this is episode 132, and I have a poem for you, this is Preludes

by T.S. Eliot.

The winter evening settles down, with smell of steaks in passageways, six o'clock.

The burnt out ends of smoky days, and now a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of

withered leaves about your feet, and newspapers from vacant lots.

The showers beat on broken blinds and chimney pots, and at the corner of the street a lonely

cap horse steams and stamps, and then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness of faint stale smells of beer from the sortest trampled

street, with all its muddy feet that press to early coffee stands.

With the other masquerades the time resumes, one thinks of all the hands that are raising

dingy shades in a thousand furnished rooms.

You toss to blanket from the bed, you lay upon your back and waited, you dozed, and

watched the night revealing the thousand-sorted images of which your soul was constituted.

They flickered against the ceiling, and when all the world came back, and the light crept

up between the shutters, and you heard the sparrows in the gutters, you had such a vision

of the street as the street hardly understands, sitting along the bed's edge, where you

curled the papers from your hair, or clasped the yellow souls of feet in the palms of both

soiled hands.

His souls stretched tight across the skies, that fade behind a city block, or trampled by

insistent feet at four and five and six o'clock, and short square fingers stuffing pipes, and

evening newspapers, and eyes assured of certain certainties, the conscience of a black-and-street

impatient to assume the world.

...