Sunday
Call the doctor of spirit,
there´s a big hole inside me,
spreads its darkness over my bed
making me wish not to get up.
Can´t you feel the bitter smell?
Something in the air tells that´s Sunday.
Let´s go to the park for a walk,
see the roses getting old,
read a book close to the window,
the weather man said it´s gonna rain.
Boredom is a golden rule,
there´s nothing we can do this Sunday.
It doesn´t feel like yesterday
when we had so many things to say, but now...
I´m not going to move from my room,
so this Sunday will go by.
It will leave a taste of cliché,
another crevice in my heart.
Today is the best day of the year
to go off and disappear, it´s Sunday.
