Every Day Sunday

In the afternoonIt arrivesThe darknessOf the believersIn the crossIn his HolinessThe black crows of the churchOn the streetsSpreading their psalmsAs victims of diseasesThe silenceEvery day in the afternoonTheir preaching of their bookAnd their holy clockTick, tock, Tick, tockDevoutness and purityThe mirth goneThe flowers withering awayThe grey, only the greyEvery day in the afternoonIt’s Sunday