A cup of coffee for us all
this morning sun to brew its taste
We wave our hats, salute its wind
the steam now rising, we fan its haste
We cup our hands, attract its warmth
its putrid scent collects what not
As lay men dance their chosen trade
and women of mercy gather in thought
My seat is empty, the tables have turned
the glass divides yet bares no hate
As many are blessed who fill its chapel
but I, alone, shall drink its fate
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem