You are the wine
that cannot return
to the grape.
Some ferment has turned you
wild.
Thousands have been crushed
for the sake of this breath,
bouquet of oak and rose,
cinnamon and musk,
Spring rain on withered hay.
The tree of the Vedas,
the whole vine of knowledge
entangled in the hollow
of a tiny seed,
the place your forehead goes
when you bow.
Astronomy and silence,
wisdom and tipsiness,
what's the difference?
Just say thank you
and savor yourself.
Art by William Adolphe Bouguereau
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