06 She Never Had A Sunday

(This is a small poem written years back for my daughter, when she was still a kid.) 'Why Sunday? ' My daughter asked. 'His work done, God rested on the seventh day and it was Sunday', I concluded. Sunday, A week's work done I rested in my armchair A book in my hand. In her study She tried to convince her mother, in vain. Finally, Exasperated She asked me again 'Why Sunday? ' 'Rest, dear, A week's work done, ' I said. 'Just tell her that, ' She said, 'and let me play.' I realised then, she, the mother, Never had a Sunday!