Ⅰ                                                                                                   Ⅷ

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.

 

Ⅶ

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?