Ode To Wine

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    <strong>Ode To Wirong>

    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 w<mark></mark>eep

    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<s></s> 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

    d<q>..</q>rop of gold,

    iopaz glass,

    in every purple ladle,

    that autumn labor<tt>..t>ed

    to fill the vessel with wine;

    and in th<bdo>..</bdo>e ritual of his office,

    let the simple man remember

    to think of the soil and of his duty,

    tate the ticle of the wine.

    <strong>Pablo Neruda</strong>

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