I drink a cup of black coffee
nobody’s at the cafe; silence is better
rather than mourning eyes.

A cup of black coffee enough
for life; no poverty, no poetry.
But without both,
—like dust on the table only.

I drink a cup of coffee,
more than anybody;
thinking and waiting here
—let it be empty.

The darkness appears
the wind blows to the east.
Suddenly, a Wiseman enters,
sitting behind my nest.

He’s asking an address to the star,
but I don’t know.
He’s mad and almost stress, 
I have no idea now.

I open an old map,
show him the pathway
— he knows the stairway
to the star, but not to the sun.

Pemaculkata, September 6th, 2020



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