Lovely Sundays of Solitude

Of stained glass of Sunday, how to conceive the pain hidden... If only the glass moans, if we listen... Sad sundays bouquets of hours all sundaysI do, while the bouquet of live flowers without way undo... There is no for whom offering flowers...what do I do? Endless sunday of disguised anguish in the four corners from the bedroom... Already in the living room of visits, fuss... in the backyard, barbecue... Sundays without you, my heart cries to pieces .. and nobody notices... who wants to matter: of my pains, stained glass, grief, flowers...!