Sunday Afternoon

Like a cover on a bed
The fog had floated down
Warming up the sleeping city
Only the magic is in the air
Otherwise it’s quiet…

Trying to cheer up the dreary day
The wind, unwelcome foreigner,
Whistles and blows its hardest
At the crisp, dry trees
Which somehow don’t break under the pressure.
They just bend and moan sadly
About their painfully stretched branches.

Perfect quietness then …scream
Two birds plummet to the earth
Warm smell of fresh cut grass
One heart locked behind the bars
Wings hitting helplessly, but still
Still the freedom they feel
It was here and now it’s gone
Just like the cruel wind sweeping the trees…

Rain is wetting the paths
But there’s no one to notice
This invisible sheet of tears
Each drop smiling then falling
Down turning to mud in
The corners of the streets.
It’s so quite – like madness,
The old pipes in the castle are
The only ones interrupting the harmony
With their conversations.