Among hundreds of cafes, I know sharp warmth
The only miniature thing And understandable, resisting suasion;
Was the bean of coffee. But I know, too,
That the coffee is intricate
Ⅱ In what I know.
I was of three minds,
Like a cup Ⅸ
In which there are three coffee mixtures. When the coffee pours out of sight,
The cup sweeps in
Ⅲ Of one of many servings.
A women sips her cup of coffee.
It was dramatic as a pantomime. Ⅹ
At the mix of a coffee
Ⅳ Surrounds a white cream,
A bean and a cup Even the bitter of lies
Are one. Would come out clearly.
A bean and a cup and a women
Are one. Ⅺ
The women is sipping.
Ⅵ The coffee must be bitter.
Blending in a mixture
With snowy milk Ⅻ
The rustling of the bean It was February all winter
Mixed it, to and fro, It was raining
The blend And it was going to rain
traces in the air The bean sat
An indelible site. On the sharp blender.
O fair men of Los Angeles,
Why do you blind yourself?
Do you not see how the women
Peacefully sips the coffee
Of the powerful bean?