Today there is no date. And it is not like other days.
It cannot be measured, the sun’s course cannot plot it.
Today is the day when every choice you make is wrong.
It cannot be numbered, it has no name. It is not called Sunday.
It is surely not the Lord’s day, not a day holy to anyone.
It is not a span of time that can be chronometered, you cannot
count backwards, or wait inert for it to pass. Grief
by itself will never pass. And this is the day
when every pain you have grows more intense.
translated by Brenda Porster