A Cup of Tea (2)

by

Alex Domokos

(Translation by Rita Toews)

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The debutante extends to me
A steaming cup of fresh brewed tea.
In porcelain cup of Wedgwood blue
So fragile that the light shows through.

I take the tendered drink with thanks
And join the ever-swelling ranks
Of swains that court the ladies' hands,
And swirl to music from the bands.

It's spring now here in Budapest,
And society shows off its best.
The elegance within this room
Would put to shame the roses bloom.

Yes Budapest, a noon-time dance,
The ladies here all court romance.
They smile from lips in faces fair
With shell-like ears and perfumed hair.

They laugh, and dance the day away
With little heed of who's to pay.
Their hands are soft from tender care,
And show no signs of labour there.

But suddenly a sense of waste
Descends on me, and ruins the taste
Of fragrant tea from silver pot,
And society who labours not.

How wasteful is this luxury!
How senseless is this gaiety!
They never cease to ask for more,
And think of nothing past this door.

But I have seen beyond this sea.
I've seen the slaves that pick this tea.
With aching backs and blood-flecked hands
They labour in their distant lands.

We want the most, we want the best,
Their pay is poor, they have no rest.
We drink their tea, we dance the dance
They labour but they have no chance.

It's been the same through history,
The world still has its slavery.
The wealthy play, the poor must toil.
From perfumed arms I now recoil.

I'm saddened that this senseless glitter
Has turned the taste of tea to bitter.
The swirl of colors turns to gray
I think of pickers, and their pay.

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