Where will they obtain for their backwater and for their struggle the
pale graves the arcane wine
of life, they will exist in isolated wastelands
or in rainy metropolises
perhaps swarms of grapes
pink, red or black containing
like infinite amphoras the light of time?
I in my proverb desiring these hours
of earthly crevices, of odd bends,
I am nobody and that is why
I'm the whole human storm
History passes through my body
and this is what I admire and dream of for a moment.
From where we will gather horror and beauty.
Which vineyard you have known for centuries
the shape of the last cup
that will quench, at last, the last thirst.