The Wisdom of the Vanishing Steam
From the old Tangkhul pot,
the green tea breathes its first prayer —
curly threads of steam rising,
dancing with the invisible winds,
swinging freely,
unaware that every movement
is a journey towards disappearance.
The mist does not mourn its ending;
it simply becomes the air,
leaving behind a fragrance
that speaks of earth, rain, and roots.
The old man pours the quiet memories
into his weathered tumbler,
sip by sip,
as if tasting the years
hidden inside every drop.
His wrinkled eyes become a doorway,
where forgotten seasons return —
By : Mayanglambam Merina Leimarenbi
childhood paths, lost voices,
and moments buried beneath time
walk again in silence.
Perhaps life is nothing but this —
a warm cup held between fragile hands,
a little steam that rises and fades,
and a fragrance we leave behind
after we are gone.
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