That Day Was A Sunday

That day was a Sunday
A stream of fresh blood from the butcher’s
Rolled over the street to the ditch by its side
The tumultuous passers-by took no notice of
The stream of blood
A pair of inept dogs with folded tails
Were licking the uncongealed blood
The faces of these restless people
Were like skulls
The scream of the man who had risen from the morgue
Kept passing up and down through the telephone wire
Where a pair of sparrows was lazing

That day was a Sunday
The market was flooded with oranges
Before the sale was over
Another Sunday had begun.

THAT DAY WAS A SUNDAY