I WISHED I WERE A SUNDAY

I wished I were a rainbow,
in which light, inattentive,
bursts into laughter,
and all the colors
meet and greet
each other

I wished I were a chunk of bread
fought over
by the blameless gluttony
of public doves

I wished I were
dear and inexpensive as the moon
that switches on along the streets
a huge lamp, pouring over the roofs
the same silver drizzle
disseminating haze and
indistinguishability

I wished I were like a peace
shy and faint, hidden behind the things
we haven’t met as yet,
a toddling hope
wobbling towards the truth with which
we still can’t cope

I wished I were as little as the instant
that travels so minutely
we can never ever pinch it
and often goes
hand in hand

I wished I were like the hour
that builds up patiently
as steps in time’s tower
and never looks back
but won’t ever reach
the fences of eternity

I wished I were an alchemist master
that in his crop of words
in a book recess of an old shelf
would come across with
the recipe for serendipity

I wished I were a dawn
that summons with a cock’s crow
the morning-lightener

I wished I were a summer,
a wandering ragged bum
in courtyards
outflooded with sun

I wished I were like those beggars
that head for no direction,
as listless to all else as a Sunday
( for Sundays have
light feet like the water
and the sea to their right)

I wished I were a Sunday