The Attitude of a Cup of Hand Drip

Sitting in a quiet corner,
the aroma drifts, luring you—
a dream woven in steam.
You wonder how long
before you catch up,
before you lose yourself
in this tiny cup of hand drip.

The first sip—
a quiet sorrow seeps in.
A wrong choice, you think,
bitterness curling at the edges of your doubt.
Deceived by this little cup,
you forget the beauty in its scent.

Yet the fragrance lingers,
a whisper you cannot resist.
Perhaps an illusion, you reason—
but your hand moves faster than your mind,
a second sip, two fleeting seconds,
sourness uncoiling, sharper than before.

Your heart seeks, lighter, lighter,
wandering a fog-lit cobblestone road.
Aroma glimmers like scattered fireflies,
darting just beyond reach.
Longing for a glimpse of fortune,
you step forward,
only to stumble on the unimpressive stones.

But here you are again,
seated with a cup of hand drip.
Not so terrible, this taste of life.
One last sip—
sourness fades, fruitiness unfurls,
like a waterfall in a gentle spring.