The Taste of Distance in Water

Every faucet hides a breath,
an echo palate by morning’s lips.
It is not thirst that traces the turn,
but an ageless journey, a divine destiny.

The water descends, transparent deceit,
from the dark womb of mother stone,
carrying the salt, the iron, the arcane
of a path only she knows how to translate.

In the glass, a silent story vibrates,
of distant lands, of deep roots,
a flavor that never frees itself
from its springs, from millennial waves.