Somewhere beyond the last rooftop,
where Pulga forgets the world,
stood a café made of silence, wood,
and the smell of chai.

The door creaked open like an old memory.
Inside—
a single bulb, a quiet man,
and steam rising from a kettle
as if the mountain had exhaled.

No name was asked,
no hurry passed.
He wrote in his notebook
as if he was writing the sky.

Outside, the grassland stretched like a sigh,
lavender swaying,
mountains watching,
and pine trees behind,
like stories not yet told.

I sat on a bench that didn’t ask for anything.
The chai was warm,
the world, soft.

Nothing happened,
and that was the most beautiful thing.

—

For evening that don’t need meaning.
— The Inner Notebook