worldtea

Dry Leaves

Appearance & Aroma

The dry leaves carried a scent of concentrated dates and honey syrup, thick and alluring, like a fresh flower calling a bee from afar.

Though the leaves had clearly aged for many years, there remained a surprisingly vibrant aroma reminiscent of fresh snow chrysanthemum.

Age had deepened the tea, but had not diminished its vitality.

—

First Infusion

The liquor opened with gentle honey and morning dew.

As it settled upon the tongue, it revealed a smooth, whiskey-like warmth and the faintest hint of apricot.

The sweetness was not present in the liquor itself.

Rather, it seemed to arise from its aroma and essence.

The tea created sweetness upon the tongue where none had existed before.

—

Second Infusion

My tongue became acquainted with the tea.

The liquor brought with it a gentle lift to the mind.

The tasting notes remained, but they felt less like flavours and more like sensations being created by the tea itself.

The hints of honey and fruit were still there.

Yet the spirit of the tea seemed intent on bringing them more fully into being.

—

Third Infusion

My tongue became further coated and the finish lingered.

The flavour that was not there continued to reveal itself.

It was like drinking pure water while gazing into a bowl of dried leaves and woody stems serving a mellow beverage of dates and chrysanthemum.

The flavours remained elusive.

Yet somehow,

they were unmistakably present.

—

Fourth Infusion

The tea entered a deeper state of flavour within flavourlessness.

My throat was now coated with the liquor.

It became a satisfying cup of warm mountain water, soothing both the belly and the spirit.

The tea no longer needed flavour to express itself.

Presence alone was enough.

—

Fifth Infusion

The flavours gradually faded, leaving behind a single, pure note.

Not flower.

Not date.

Not chrysanthemum.

Only a mellow infused liquor.

A kind of honey remained.

Not thick honey.

Nor syrupy sweetness.

But a lighter kind—

diluted,

effortless,

flowing.

Yet unmistakably honey.

—

Sixth Infusion

My saliva coated the tea, asking for more.

But being meek and demure,

she refused me.

I became possessive and wanted all of her.

Yet she left me with only a droplet of herself mingling with the water in the cup.

The tea was no longer fading.

It was departing.

—

Seventh and Final Infusion

The tea transformed.

From scent to flavour.

From flavour to essence.

From essence to water.

From water to a single droplet.

And finally,

to gentleness.

It seemed to whisper,

“I can only ever give you a drop of me,

but this drop is unmistakably me.”

The dates were gone.

The chrysanthemum was gone.

Even the honey had almost vanished.

Yet what remained carried the identity of the tea in its entirety.

A final drop.

Small.

Gentle.

Quiet.

And unmistakably itself.