Now that I reflect, I do like tea,
Though time's no matter I ever drink it,
Thirstily:

Sip it to the dregs
And then having better understanding,
Sip those dregs too.

Eagerly from the mug, so deep, true.
Potent history from bag to cup
And too from hand to hand, word to ear,
Man to men, man to woman to women.

In this tea I taste it all,
The bitterest human emotions: the lowest shames,
Written in confession or guilt or pride,
Debauched or glorified- fixation.

Slowly the taste changes,
And change itself is the sweetest movement,
On my tongue, night, noon or morning.
The swirls, which in a cube would be turns,
Phrases, cuts or corners, if not for their nature.

British, such a short word for so voiced,
so cultivated a culture.
Humanity, so innocuous a term for our mongrel selves;
History must have been kept by humanists,
Else too much revised by euphemists.

Or, I have learned too far and too distanced
Events taught by puritans, in their land, their way.
How violently they subdue us here!
And that is why I do not like our local tea. No,
Give me the thrill of British history.