31/07/2026
Sunday
Sunday arrives
like a thought the sky forgot to finish.
The windows open into another season of silence,
where light is no longer light,
but memory learning how to breathe.
Somewhere, the wind turns invisible pages
of a book no one remembers writing.
The chair waits,
not for a person,
but for a moment willing to stay.
Morning lingers at the threshold,
barefoot,
gathering fragments of yesterday's dreams
from the leaves.
Time loosens its name.
The walls become softer than clouds.
Even the air seems to pause,
as though listening
for a distant conversation
between the sun and the earth.
Nothing asks to be held.
Nothing asks to be understood.
Only this quiet—
wide enough to disappear into,
gentle enough to believe
that every ending
was merely another window
opening toward the light.
And somewhere, beyond thought,
Sunday keeps dreaming us
into ourselves.
