If the Buddha could leave his father’s throne, then why can’t I renounce my father’s home? Peace don’t bloom in walls that bruise, so I walk with faith — the path I choose. Sunday came soft, like a woman in white, clear skies wrapped in her morning light. Her voice was calm, her soul divine, she whispered, “Child, your pain is mine.” Birds sang love songs outside my place, as her spirit brushed gently across my face. The sound of peace, a melody rare, Sunday’s presence filled my air. I bathed in her aura, clean and deep, while she hummed prayers my soul could keep. She said, “Gratitude’s gold, let it shine in your tone, you woke up, my love — you’re never alone.” I thanked the Most High, for her holy kiss, for mornings like this, pure with bliss. Yet my heart still wondered about my old man’s story, is he under mercy, or lost in his glory? Sunday smiled — eyes deep as a psalm, she said, “Forgive, not for him, but for calm. The throne you left was never your chain, you’re free, my love, through faith and pain.” Her hands held light, her breath spoke grace, like Allah Himself wrote peace on her face. She kissed my doubt, said, “Sin’s just clay — mold it right, and pray your way.” So I sat with her till noon’s bright rise, truth reflected in her golden eyes. Sunday ain’t just a day to me — she’s a woman who prays in poetry.