Poetry (words)

Sunday morning. 


Sometimes when the days are too full to catch my breath I long for Sunday morning. In the room scented by a fresh bouquet of hyacinth and freesias. 

My thoughts untangle here, without force, without having to try. The map for the day ahead unfolds before me, but I choose no particular route. 

Silence, the conductor of this symphony, this treasured time. Like a walk in the woods at dawn. Contentment remains at my side without the blinkers of promises from yesterdays past. 

I hope for the planet, that better days will come, that the cruelty and anger will somehow fade. I hope that mankind will see the simplicity of peace amongst the rubble where children once played.

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