With swift strides, every minute drags itself, as years zoom away.
Weekend's vibrant redness turns the dull blue to a purplish hue,
Monday's paralyzing infinite sky painted in its view.
Now comes the robust and unavoidable figure of your week,
In its swelling, pulsating veins, yesterday's colors still leak.
Yet, it embraces tomorrow's soft, angelic golden news,
A steaming spring from afar encourages your determination,
Letting it splatter golden drops on your creation.
The hope of relief won't last for long,
The River of Hope begins to recede, where grayness swims on the creamy yellow branch of Promise,
Thursday's beige from the shore turns yesterday into the past.
Finally, a bowl clouds over, black Friday spills from its narrow bed,
Destroying all that has happened, concealing the image ahead.
Colorless, sharp, a pencil without a tip tears the paper of tomorrow,
Then Sunday offers a new, clean page, free of sorrow.
Only one week, perhaps not yet forgotten,
Yet, with a multitude, the years ascend above, misbegotten.
