Ode To Wine
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wih purple feet
or wih topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet tained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stoer of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind ihe day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the a poet.
Let the wicher
add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
bees the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your nipples are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the unity of man,
translucy,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like oable,
when were speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
iopaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and iual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
tate the ticle of the wine.
Pablo Neruda