Sunday Cafe

White walls of green scent
Dress the mother and daughter
In the last corner with a
Mirage of tranquility amidst
This class dating back two centuries.

Ceiling painted with the tales
Of gruesome victories of delicate hues,
And proud achievements in a subtle tone.
The devil's hand painted those icons
Which offer cool silhouettes
To the atched-shoulders
Seeking respitr from the
Late winter winds.

The waitresses uniforms
Are like a night sky:
Black slate and a bright full moon
Beaming out a yellow halo
Over the slumbering green fields.
The waiters gathered by the counter
Are like a constellation,
That offers no advice, only an earthly warmth.

On one table, the wealth of history
Mingles with the history of wealth;
Elaborate menus serve as ornate pillows
Where black and white time rests its head.
A smile overlooks the spontanaous papers,
And overwhelms every noise and colour
Brining in dreams of unity in majesty.

Every pause in her breath
Is a mirror of whats unseen.
The devil fills it with self-deceit,
The angels place laurels around sensitivity.
A hundred thoughts; all drowned out
By the waiter passing by.

Then its back to gazing
On the marble tops of the bar
Dancing an unknown tango
With the coffee cups and beer mugs,
And the old couple reading
The wrinkled sunday newspaper
Sipping a warm cup of tea
Like an ivory river.

All this is familiar, mundane,
But this is what there is;
For it is what is seen
And what is being lived now.
Everyone wishes to be with
Someone who can make them see
Old things with a novel look,
But why abandon everything
Just for that elusive moment,
Why sacrifice everything
For that haunting someone?

Wonderful view of wood and centuries
I tip my hat to you.
The past is kept in the mug handles,
The present in the whispered orders,
And the future is everywhere.

Long may it live,
Whenever it comes.