The bookstore-café was beginning to settle into its evening rhythm. Warm pendant lamps glowed above its crowded bookshelves, casting long shadows across tables littered with poetry collections, coffee cups, and half-finished notebooks. Near the back of the shop, an old velvet sofa and several mismatched armchairs were arranged around a low wooden table, creating a makeshift poetry corner. The aroma of freshly ground coffee mingled with a faint, comforting smell of aged paper.
Outside, cool evening air pressed against the tall windows, while inside, a small gathering of poetry lovers listened to the final lines of an enigmatic poem about ignorance, uncertainty, and human knowledge.
For a moment after the reading ended, no one spoke. Only the hiss of an espresso machine and the muted clink of cups from the café counter broke the silence.
Nadia shook her head slowly, her expression tightening with frustration as she turned to her companions. "I detest this poem!" she began, her voice cutting sharply through the quiet murmur of the café. "It glibly pretends that we don’t know why millions of people are starving. But the reasons are hardly mysterious. We know where the food goes, who controls the resources, and who profits from scarcity."
Wan-Sze nodded in grim agreement, his fingers tracing the rim of his cold ceramic mug. "Moreover, it valorizes Jack Daniels and Jim Beam," he added, his tone carrying a quiet, analytical weight. "Those companies are hardly solutions to the world’s suffering. Alcohol and recreational drugs don’t solve social problems. At best, they offer temporary escape; at worst, they dull our awareness of the suffering around us."
Kasim leaned back into the worn velvet cushions of the sofa, offering a slow, dismissive shrug of his shoulders. "Aren't you being too harsh?" he asked, a faint, easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "A poem is just a poem. Why take human words so seriously?"
Nadia stared at him. "Because words are never just words," she replied. "They shape what we notice, what we ignore, and what we think is possible."
Kasim's smile faded slightly. For several seconds, nobody responded. Then Wan-Sze lifted his cold mug and looked at the untouched coffee inside.
"Perhaps poem makes us comfortable with not knowing; maybe we should ask what kind of ignorance it is protecting."
The espresso machine hissed again behind the counter. Someone gulped some Irish coffee, then sighed.
Note: This piece was partially generated with AI tools; human editing was then applied.
Taipei – T Newfields Shizuoka
