"ODE TO WINE
Wine the color of day,
wine the color of night,
wine with feet of purple or blood of topaz,
wine, starry son of the earth,
wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as a disheveled velvet,
wine coiled and suspended, amorous, marine,
you are never present in a single cup, in a song, in a man,
you are choral, gregarious, and, at the very least, reciprocal.
Sometimes you feed on mortal memories,
on your wave we go from tomb to tomb, stonecutters of the frozen sepulcher,
and we weep fleeting tears,
but your beautiful dress of spring is different,
the heart rises to the branches, the wind moves the day,
nothing remains in your still soul.
Wine moves the spring,
it grows like a plant of joy,
walls fall, rocks, abysses close, song is born.
Oh, you, carafe of wine,
in the desert with the beautiful woman I love, said the old poet.
May the jug of wine add its kiss to the kiss of love, my love,
suddenly your hip is the full curve of the cup
your breast is the bunch of grapes,
the light of alcohol your hair,
the grapes your nipples,
your navel a pure seal imprinted on your amphora belly,
and your love the inexhaustible cascade of wine,
the clarity that falls on my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But not only love, burning kiss and burned heart,
you are, wine of life, but friendship of beings, transparency,
chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers.
I love on the table, when one converses,
the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
Let them drink it;
let them remember in every drop of gold or cup of topaz or spoon of purple
that autumn worked to fill the amphorae with wine,
and let the dark man learn, in the ceremonial of his work,
and remember the earth and its duties, to spread the canticle of the fruit."
Created by d'Araprì