SUNDAYS:

Sundays, designed for the lonely without a loving home,

For those who have no one & are totally on their own,

Sundays, created in silence, for all streets without a name,

For the tap-tapping echoes, of the blind man with his cane.

 

Sundays, incantations of chapel bells, so coldly & old chimed,

Of the tin can kicked loudly over cobbles, grey & dirty rimed,

Sundays, that hallowed place, where the folk go out to pray,

 Sadly, most forgetting, that God lives too in every other day.

 

Sundays made for men, who talk to bottles in brown bags,

For those who dance alone, when life´s edges sadly sags,

Sundays, days designed for those, who weep alone in rain,

That oh-so-lonely place, where the week meets in solitary pain.