The tea smouldered in the circular porcelain,
streaming steam swiftly and without care,
balancing on the window sill,
next to it lay the tin,
the tin containing moments of joy.
The glass window was speckled,
as if dotted with envy,
the rain launched itself from the blanketed sky above,
seeking the steam to stem their sorrow.
The tea was terrorized as the rain guided
toward the tin, the smouldering liquid caught between,
a citizen of the consuming kind bathed in the very joy, unaware,
of the Japanese water bombers that cascaded his harbour,
as if it were a pearl.