The Old Man and the Tea

I see the old man
Every single day.
Before the sun arrives;
While the street lights in faded yellow
He's always in that same place
Alone.
Under that one white light,
That fights the realm of darkness;
Like the lone strong warrior to
A once glorious kingdom.

I'd walk by him every morning,
And even if it is just a glance I see
It seems like I know him;
More than what he seems to be
It's the smell that attracts.
The magic
Of fresh boiling tea,
The aroma tries and fights
Like a loyal page in battle.

Oft I'd pass by him in the afternoon
And I peek into his life.
The powder begins to settle
Boiling for long in the kettle
It starts to mix in well;
Like the bond between the buyers,
As the sugar gets dissolved
The laughter and crowd shows
A win of approval
To a well blend of perfection.

I catch a glimpse of him in the evenings,
The powder has settled for long.
And the tea is stronger,
Much like the company around.
The old men from the ancient shops near
Keep the tradition from the past many year
Sharing stories of their golden age
Or of the kids these days.
As the other lives pace ahead of them
They sit back and sip the tea
Strong
From time, trial and resolution.

I saw him at night
The tea pot is empty
The powder,
drained to its last essence.
Its powers lost with its vivaciousness 
Like the energy of those around.
I see the old man again,
With his faithful white aide
Done and tired
yet persistent.
The remnants won't fight again tomorrow;
He'll have to start afresh.
He takes a final ounce,
of the magic that remains,
One that will help him carry on;
A glass of tea
for himself.