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Saturdays


On Saturdays I'm unappreciated -

wild, flexible, and lively as a lynx.

And tiredness, having turned into a whim,

vacates me like a wound - healed up and faded.

 

School totally collapses in my mind

and I am far from registers an blackboards.

A hundred thousand rivers run towards me,

tints, hues, and rainbows fill my eyes,

 

and I get rhythms from those gipsy women.

I'm very, very strong - a vine in spring,

and I turn my guitar into a tear;

I never ask questions, never listen.

 

On Saturdays I'm unappreciated -

wild, flexible, and lively as a lynx.

And fear, sorrow, tiredness or whims

vacate me like a wound - healed up and faded.

 

And I'm not even sure who I am.

But when I put on Monday's uniform -

that blackboard-tunic once again,

I turn into a good girl as before.

 


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