A Quiet Sunday

The sun came up as it did every morn

But the sky was strangely grey.

Birds did not the trees adorn,

It was an unusually quiet Sunday.


Nay leaves rustled nor barked a hound,

Nigh the sirens blared.

In the hushed town the only sound,

Mayhem lone declared.


The customary prosaic, lethargic eyes

On a Dominicus are open wide

Like the expanse of a rose, ere it dries,

Smashes to smithereens its erstwhile pride.


Every eye spoke of a foreign fear

Lips doth silently pray.

Every face doth numb appear

On that unusually quiet Sunday.



PS. Special thanks to my friend Ashwin Dodani. It was he who compelled me to write and write on this very topic. 🙂


7 thoughts on “A Quiet Sunday

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