I wake up on a usual Sunday morning and look Usually at the unusual year planner on my wall. The even squares of days, grin with a bored look, And sadly, shows me the same words on each slot. I open a grey wardrobe full of grey clothes to look For the usual dress I wear, now worn-out as rags. I sit on a chair and read the same crimped page for The zillionth time with closed, soar and sleepy eyes. I pick up one by one, the thrown-out, small wailing Invitation cards and, put them on intense red fires. Clitter, clatter and shatter the silver spoons and Pots and dishes embrace each other in pure love. The shining, stunning…
The Spice of Life
