I don’t know whether a cup of tea
Is a broom, a postman or a confessional.
All I know, is that, tea makes you forget
Your worries and yet, sometimes, you’re drawn
Back to a time of love letters, inside your postbox,
And still, tea makes me feel real,
Like a mortal with sins, in sin’s brace.
A cup of tea, is just a little
Ritual in most Sri Lankan homes,
When you sip in silence, the embittered-flavor of tea leaves
While your eyes scan familiar surroundings.
A room filled with kin, who are just your audience
And vise-versa, and what better way
To show that you’re one of them, than
Caressing your eyes with the people that matter
To abuse your happy centers, lounging
On a sofa, sipping tea ever so slow.
Even lovers can learn a lesson from a cup of tea,
Of how, to blow a little wind
And caress with the fine filament of lips,
Perfecting the art of tenderness,
What lovers conveniently forget these days.
And in this silent ritual of tea sipping,
Your find, a household that becomes a family,
Turning figureheads into close kinships,
Sight turning to gazes, while the vinyl
Metamorphoses to the true vintage,
While caffeine pushes serotonin,
As life becomes a cha-cha, pacing along,
The heart living a charmed life,
Knowing a paltry sip of cha is like putting
Your dance shoes on, to learn that
It is the music, that keeps up with you.