"THE VINTAGERS
They harvest the wine of their eyes,
they press every tear, even this one:
the night wants it,
the night, against which they lean, the wall,
the stone demands it,
the stone, beyond which their crutch speaks,
into the silence of the repose -
their crutch, which one day,
one autumn day,
when the year swells to death, like a grape,
crosses speaking the muteness, down,
into the well where thought springs.
They harvest, they press the wine,
they tread time like their eye,
all the weeping that drips from it they place
in the tomb of the sun, which they with hand
hardened by the night prepare:
so that later a mouth may thirst for it -
a late mouth, resembling theirs:
twisting towards what is blind, withered -
a mouth from which the foam rises from the depths to drink,
while the sky descends into the waxen sea,
to shine from afar, a stub of light,
if finally the lip moistens."
Created by d'Araprì