by Anna Polibina-Polansky
The wine is brewed inside the sun:
It is up, when the heart is sunk.
So we sip from the magic jar:
Its warmth is sent here from afar.
It is the juice we ought to praise:
It is the grace of squashed sweet rays.
With that true energy, up raised
Are sprouts of a thankful phrase.
All of a sudden, we get blessed:
The hearts return to cozy nests.
Freed to the air, are days oppressed,
And we can count for the best.
I'm not allowed to say much:
Of that sweet wine, warm is the touch.
The hearts are even with the trees:
The spring time brings along the breeze...
There is not much, to this, to add:
Just this is meant now, to be said,
Just this, and not a sound more.
So melts the night. So comes the morn.
Last updated April 26, 2011