Sunday at the laid table.
Steamed dishes
pies, soups, cheeses,
Life is hectic on Sundays.
The whole world is spread out on a clean tablecloth.
Thyme smells musky.
ruby wine in the glasses
in the mouths
May hearts open like a fig.
In every breath the sip drips promise
warm words
like the slices of bread that was leavened at dawn.
Nothing is left over.
a mouthful of laughter
everyone eats from it
until the plate is empty,
it has for everyone.
Memory is an extinguished candle;
It's windy on Sundays.
erases secrets,
all of them were forgiven.
The sun drips on the edge of the lips
to pour out songs
to pour out a blessing
A feast for the ages to drink.
Then the dinnerware in the sink
the bag is empty
nothing to throw away
the dog's tardiness swallowed
and the last piece
bellies and mouths were full on Sunday.
No one noticed the empty chair.
and today.
A plate in the monk's cupboard
Bad fate struck him, from birth,
to become a widow
A fork found no resistance to stick anywhere.
he couldn't find a hand
found no sign
for the one who didn't sit down.
Yesterday doesn't come back.
nor Sunday, the day of forgiveness.
Does he eat alone?
The question
uneaten
on the table
like a crumb falling to the floor
along with the others
as the same as these.
I'm not running to save it.
from farasi.
Monday tomorrow.
photo 24VPS, https://pixabay.com
