Sunday

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Sunday, you arrive without fuss
to every corner of the earth,
you flood with your summer sap
the old streets and the new areas,
the terraces, the parks and gardens,
the fields and riverbanks,
you give air to the air, light to the light, time to time
that with you stops and calms down.
You taste of meeting, of calm, you put
you make the water in the fountains clearer, more accurate
the hours of stillness,
more crowded bars and taverns,
more affable men and women
and you dress them in festivity.
You make the meetings
a more intense way of life.
But soon you end
as all good things come to an end,
and you give way to other days, only
of you remains
a vital memory
and a gradual and slowed down waiting
in the daily boredom,
in the mundane tedium that carries us away.