From its golden courtyard
Holy Sunday appeared.
Itβs quiet. Sad.
Nothing will fly by, or sing.
β O Lord, send us a bird into the world!
It may be voiceless, but at least let it coo.
And God sent a cuckoo.
β for your lifetime
drink the music
all the agony
you, the accidental
drowned one of our age β
Sad.
Green Sunday.
1920