Unsung songs on Sundays

And then there are days of endless cups of warm tea

Of sleeping in the arms of a cozy Sunday

Of having seven drops of rain on my lips

Of having a vision in your mind of silver

These are the days of an evening playing the shy bride

Of allowing the roughness of an old sweatshirt to touch your skin

Of watching airplanes above the clouds

Of three flyovers and several fast trains

Of a Bus Stop and brilliant orange trees

Of careful reading of the cards of fortune

Of knowing warnings and pleasures

Of songs forbidden to be sung