No luxurious ceiling,
Only cracked paint above the bed.
No choir of operas,
Only sparrows bickering on their sill.

Morning light that filters through,
Casting itself on the chipped chair.
A stain of coffee remains on it,
Books lying around.

The hum of the fridge,
And the chime of glass,
The wind's hot breeze.
It is ordinary.

The street still holds the weight,
Lives withering and unfolding in its edges,
All unnoticed.
It is ordinary.

The people pass,
Horns blare,
Voices collide—
The clink of coins,
The calls of vendors,
The birdsongs.
And I stand amidst it all.
It is ordinary.

The church's walls lie pristine,
The pews full of believers,
Offering their heart to the dead.
The choir sings of God,
He is real.
And it is ordinary.

There is no masterpiece,
Only ordinary.