The monk sips the morning tea, thanking each leaf,
Drowning in the taste and aroma, of that moment brief.
The mind remains focused, the world stands still,
To experience that rapture, I'll gladly die or kill.
Dengue bit me hard, I almost rented the death bed,
Crawling my way out, I am now out of zone red.
A warm cup of tea, now tastes of pure bliss,
Once I get on with my life, this feeling I'll miss.
You may serve me exotic Matcha, but if my mind is elsewhere,
I will miss the elegant Sado, a ceremony both ordinary and rare.
Anything can become transcendent, if a moment you can spare,
But as the poet laments, where's the time to stand and stare.
I write for you daily, mine is an ordinary craft,
Would you recognize, in your busyness, if it were indeed high art?
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