Language of History- A poem

I met this girl who made me believe that earth is round and it indeed moves around its axis. I was looking through the tinted glass, rain pouring like flowers in spring air – utter melancholy, here and there.

She came to me, asked for what I want, that girl with blue eyes and purple lips; hair as red as sun and hands so pale, like she never knew light, avoiding the sun; the way lovers avoid trauma bound conversations.

History dripped from her words; a dialect I never heard of. For you, natural instinct might be to correct the pronunciation.
However, I kept listening to her. She showed me different types of coffee, and asked me to choose one, as it’s cold and romantic. I have no preferences in coffee, cold is a feeling that reminds me of life and romance? I’m a hopeless romantic.
I asked her to choose one instead, then she  assured me to be back with a coffee made by love for the lover.

I was still lost in translation, vernacular is bliss. Like love can only be described best in the mother tongue; her words seemed to be as old as time.
I am no philologist yet I’m stuck in time, trying to make sense of history.

She served me as-it-is: the words of generations, which she said her father had taught her, for her mother was too busy trying to birth a boy. The words which surely stay the same with tingling aroma of coffee.