On Sunday I dreamt that you are mine;
I dreamt on a Sunday morning that is endowed with silence
and a rude awakening of meaningless busy skirmishes;
On a Sunday, my dreams made you mine.
Your head resting on me, hands collapsed to humble sincerity
Hair loose draping your forehead and your eyes,
your magnificent eyes that can crumble my world
lay closed within the reaches of my lips.
My lips that kissed you; and that remained
only in that Sunday morning dream
when idleness was brevity, and brevity was
just one kiss, to which my world shivered and ached.
In my Sunday morning everything is barren
but that dream where life rejuvenates when
living is naught but you and you living is for that of me;
for else than my dreams, your clutches hold not hands of mine.