"It happens to the man who in autumn strips
the vine, on the ladder that rustles with it
-the man is old and autumn colors
his soul within with melancholy;
it seems to him that with the year his life
also ends;
the little he got from it sticks
in his throat like a dryness and he swallows-
among the reddened vine leaves to discover
a surviving cluster.
He fills
his hand with it, seized by childlike joy;
he weighs it as if not believing his eyes.
That fruit reserved for his thirst the vintage;
summer ripened it for him,
the autumn sun gilded it,
the plant squeezed into it its last juice.
Sugar drips from the grape that slips
into his mouth so as not to lose a drop;
each grape streaks him with silent
delight...
Happy and resigned eyes watch
with the cluster diminish
his first, perhaps last, sweetness."
Created by d'Araprì