“Have yourself a blessed Sunday!”
Is what I hear from morning till evening
What’s the use of the day being blessed
When night comes and you neglected feeding your stomach?
What good is a day blessed when your thoughts grow wear and troubled
As yesterday and the day before?
Your wife left you, dragging your child along,
Claiming you’re ineffectual
Incapable of nourishing them both;
Your father falls off his stool drunk
Muttering about what life has befallen him;
Your brother neglects you’re alive,
It’s just you alone caring after the wretched, dejected homestead.
Plenty of times you thought of taking your own life,
But you couldn’t—you can’t stand the sight of blood
The night ends eventually, making way for dawn’s approach:
It’s a Monday,
But still your neighbors smile at your misery
Wishing you a blessed Sunday.
Imagine that!
PhilOyok 