He said the world was much too busy,
people running, never late.
Chasing trains and chasing money,
calling hurry living fate.
But he had dreams of smaller kingdoms,
not of crowns or grand display—
just a little wooden table
in a quiet café.
Morning light upon the window,
newspaper and coffee steam,
watching strangers pass like weather,
drifting through his private dream.
The waiter nods without a question,
brings the cup he always knew.
Some ambitions roar like thunder—
some arrive with coffee too.
He wants to be the king of the café,
ruling hours slow and sweet.
While the restless city races
down the endless crowded street.
King of the café, nothing more—
no parade and no decree.
Just a chair beside the window
and the time to simply be.
People told him, “Find a real job.
Life is not a place to rest.”
But he smiled and stirred his coffee—
maybe slow is simply best.
For the world is full of runners
who forget to look around,
while a quiet cup of coffee
might contain the truth they’ve found.
Perhaps the clever ones are racing,
winning prizes, taking gold…
But the wise ones sit in cafés
watching little stories unfold.
He’ll be the king of the café,
where the clocks forget their speed.
Where a man can rule a kingdom
with a chair and what he needs.
And while the city keeps on running
like it always seems to do—
he just lifts his cup and whispers,
“Take your time… the world will too.”