In my Shrine
I remember all the poetry created
and the Love Muse
of my perfect planet
All the "Eve je T'aime"
and the word "Divine"
As the world fall in place
Coffee becomes my Wine...
In my cup
I see the face
of a girl who was once my mother
from a nostalgic time of black & white
Among my own down town
my own archive of sights
I pour more of dark salvation
to please my addiction
i spoil by pouring
and pouring to indulge
i indulge to addict
in my black cup of wine
The Aroma surrenders
to the taste of fate
whisper old ancient language
that no one can translate
But then comes a man
who defeat the locks
for other men to try
having tears in grain
that later becomes their mourning wine.
And the truth prevails
in obscure water
that hides my joy and pain
like traces over sand in a windy day
But here I come again
spell poetry that remain
my main source of power.
I gaze away
watching the pot
that holds the wine of my coffee ...
Am I that exposed?
Does it even show?
How enticing it can be
to just sink in my cup and start a fantasy
of an Eve who cook my daily wine
and pour a magic into my cup of coffee....
