The Kind of Day when Violins Play
Clouds made up of sounds of violins, the white clouds that seldom move, if you stare for days.
The birds that never seem to look angry, even as the crows, eat their own friendships.
The kind of day when the sky, looks like a flying ocean, and you want to jump up into it, not realising that you cannot fly upside down.
When the monsoon is barley a problem, because you like the look of the rain anyway, because it looks like sunrays, sunrays from the sky.
The kind of day when the trees hardly seem to sway, even if there was a tornado, you'd refuse to run away.
And the crickets that you hear, as you walk across a field, are not crickets on a field but,
angles in a jungle.
When the earth moves and makes you dizzy, when you lay on the ground, and a tear falls down your face, that tastes of sugar and not salt.
The day when the hypocrites, never will seem right, because in your heart you know why, the storm that is supposed to look black, somehow to you today is looking bright.
That day when the music that usually makes you cry, is sweetening up your day,
because the tears are not stinging anymore, because they are happy- tasting-sweet.
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Comments about this poem (The Kind of Day when Violins Play by Rebecca Stansfield )
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