The end of the week
An ode to Sundays?
Published in
Mar 28, 2021
On Sunday there is rain inside me.
Notes slide down the pentagram,
Nostalgia becomes contagious
Desire, languidly wears out.
On Sunday I can’t drift attention
From demons stealing my sleep.
Birds kill the long hours crying
Yearning for another dawn to begin.
On Sunday purpose is futile
Journeys stretch sideways
Aches colonise.
On Sunday reasons are lacking,
Words have no meaning
Life passes by.
I marvel at how our bodies
Keep track of the passing week.
Egyptians watched eight sunrises,
Ten twilights counted the Greeks.
Yet seven celestial tokens,
Danced in the night skies of Babylon
And cursed us not only with Sundays,
But indifference,
stillness
and remorse.
© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021
