You are my ancient religion, my
morning cup of tea, black and
strong with sweetest honey of
melanin, with no milk, not diluted
that's how I prefer you warm, even
steaming hot too.Half full, half
empty you complete me, you occupy
even the least of my thoughts, I
think of you, every time the kettle
hisses. Our affection boils, I pour
you into the cup of my hands and
stroke you with my fingers, hold
you closer then sip you.
|Suss KaMzibeni|
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem