Sunday

This is the only day you live.

You lie the whole morning

In a lotus shade of dreams

Unfolding that so many schedules

The busy week forbades.

If only you could get around the endless wall

And corridor of tomorrow's work, the dull grey stone

And Pavlov bell that daily regulate the bone!

If only you could hitch-hike round the world!

 

So you make the best use of this one-day parole,

Fancying the freedom of birds,

The beauty, the sheer ease in their flying.

And you think how even the newspapers

Have become increasingly dull

And full of half-truths

That will beguile the mind once it relaxes,

Relapses, into its habitual recesses.

 

You wish for some means of escape,

Of following the career of the flying birds

Away from those routine horizons

The cage-bar stairways.

You wish for more Sundays

And quiet, and freedom,

To sleep, a bit longer

The days you are really alive.