On Sundays, when the world slows its pace

On Sundays, when the world slows its pace,

A gentle rhythm takes its place.

The air is filled with tranquil delight,

And whispers of poetry come to light.

As sunlight dances through the trees,

I find solace in the gentle breeze.

In the stillness of this sacred day,

I let my heart's verses come out to play.

The morning dew adorns each blade,

Like tears of joy that nature made.

With pen in hand and thoughts set free,

I paint my dreams in poetry.

The church bells toll their melodic chime,

Inviting souls to find divine rhyme.