In the quiet of the afternoon, a pot begins to sing,
Whispering secrets in swirls of steam,
Each cup poured is a melody, a gentle ring,
Bringing calm, like a soft, soothing dream.

The leaves unfurl, like stories untold,
Their essence mingles, a dance in the air,
Golden hues in porcelain cups, a sight to behold,
Each sip a moment, a respite from care.

Conversations flow like the tea being shared,
Warmth spreads, a comfort that’s rare,
In every drop, worries are bared,
And with each taste, we find solace there.

As the sun dips low, and shadows grow long,
The final cup is poured, the last of the song,
In the gentle serenade, we find we belong,
In the ritual of tea, where peace is lifelong.