Parabola

Parábola

The  feet of the laborer bruise the grapes
The hands of the poet mend the words
The agrarian feet tread grapes for the taste
while urban hands shape the tongue's 
utterance to receive the acrid rush.

From the toil of rustic feet comes the sweetest libation
From the writer's grind comes the bitterest creation
Hues of blood tinges tongue and feet
Surges of passion of an unlike kind are revealed
The vintner is fleshly bound to the berries he presses
as for the poet, he is left  with the solemn rite
of sipping the vintage and embracing Silenus,
The wine is meant to serve and being served
It washes the laborer feet, but subdues the genius.

Wine is conceived by a violent deed
but Poetry is forged by a surrendered spirit
which needs a rich Bordeaux to pour
sedation in its own fragility
And yet it all comes from those provincial feet
to nurture a erudite soul, trampled soul.