It’s just another Sunday,
I can’t face up to the brightness of the morning
The weight of your voice reeking of untold hopes
I didn’t say it, mother.
I remember the whisper of laughter in the clear blue
A murmur of a quarrel over the weekly shopping
The whiff of spices lingering from your bubbling stew
It’s just another Sunday,
The stale cheerful noise of last night has been aired out
Bleary eyes can’t take your warm adoring gaze anymore
I shouldn’t say it, mother.
Do I feel the oil from your hands smoothening my hair…
That glow of moral arrogance of your honest home.
I wish I could be a part. That I could still run up to you and share….
It’s just another Sunday,
The smoke swirling out of the stub spreads and hides
The seams. I am stitching it up for you as we talk
I couldn’t say it, mother.
I miss the comfort of those old ways.....
The cheerful pervasion of my smug dreams
Oh why didn’t I save all those simple days….
It’s yet another Sunday,
I didn’t say it, Mamma.
But did you just hear it, somehow?
