Dreams would slip away
and hide beneath the pillow,
while the sun, laughing,
tickled me gently to wake.
It was Sunday morning, before the sea,
and already, voices rose from the street
a voice singing, clear and distant,
like water echoing through stone.
At this hour they restore you! At this hour they refresh you!
At this hour they restore you! At this hour they refresh you!
The stars, shy,
withdrew one by one
into the womb of the sky.
The moon turned off her light and went off to sleep.
In summer, on Sunday mornings,
it’s voices that stir the sleep
someone sells mulberries
that stain your fingers dark,
someone brings bread,
still steaming in rough hands.
At this hour they restore you! At this hour they refresh you!
At this hour they restore you! At this hour they refresh you!
Bread! Bread! Bread!