Each and every weekday
grips with its own ferocity,
as if life was meant to be
made of days of labour.
Weekends can not come
to fast and in a flash
they pass us by,
as if time is pressed
to stay on a working day.
I want every day
to be a holiday
and work to turn into
a time to play.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem