Whimsical whispers of jade interlaced in orbits,
The moon brews stars distilled from ancient leaves.
Can you taste the galaxies in your cup?
Once, in a bamboo grove beneath Saturn's ring,
A monk spoke to utopias yet unimagined.
His voice like a steeper in silent whirlpools.
"Perhaps," he said, "the suns align differently here,
Where moments pass like lentils in a sifting hourglass."
Navigate to the gravely latte:
Eternal Whisper
Or perhaps an infusion of astral echoes?
Solar Brew