It was early morning when the first sip touched my lips. The world was still asleep, but in the steaming cup lay an invitation to wakefulness—a silent pact between coffee and writing.  

They say it all began in Ethiopia, with a shepherd named Kaldi and his dancing goats. They chewed on red fruits and suddenly seemed possessed by a mysterious energy. Kaldi tried the beans and felt the same awakening. Thus, coffee was born, a secret revealed by chance, soon crossing seas and deserts to reach the tables of thinkers and poets.  

In the cafés of Paris, Voltaire drank dozens of cups a day, believing they held the spark of genius. Balzac, tireless, drowned himself in liters of the beverage to write without rest. Poe, among shadows and mysteries, found in coffee an ally against sleep and melancholy.  

Coffee has always been there, beside words. In literary gatherings, in sleepless nights, in pages written between sips and daydreams. It warms the hands and awakens the mind, as if each drop contained a fragment of inspiration.  

Now, as I finish this chronicle, I realize the coffee has gone cold. But the words—they remain warm, pulsing on the page, as if made from the same fire that once made Kaldi’s goats dance.

©️ Beatriz Esmer