Poesie per il vino | Armando Tejada Gómez

by Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Letter of wines
With the shadow of the year, with the time
that autumn the wood ages,
matures into the heart of wine red
setting calendars of patience.
The ancient science of his Alchemy
not supported but the calculation of climate
When the wort regains movement
and in its fermentation boiling life.
Enmelada of bees going evening,
founding him gentleness regions,
as a joyful flower of the air
asleep in the nursery of the foam.
The wine goes green to the purple,
the pink litmus, transparency
where is the light solid an instant
and the aroma of a place of residence.
The man knows wine. He came to man.
Is a secret mystery.
From the most remote come together
breaking the windows of silence.
The memory of the wine, is the memory
the Labrador of shoots and stars
that one day, already standing, killed to oblivion
and it came to strides by the Earth.
The former pastor of the ages
kept cereals, the tool,
He took the vine with him over the centuries
to see return spring.
2
It contains names of region and grandparents,
unchangeable forms and names,
the Pinot gris of sunsets,
the night Burgundy, the seismic Médoc,
that mouthful of bright Riessling
It fills the joy of booms
or the shady solitude Cabernet
that stuns the heart like a moan.
Noon solar table
the Lambrusco of the year blinks
and is delayed, fostering
the drowsing in the desktop.
It sometimes comes with the Green taste
to the loud roar of the taverns,
the tumultuous celebrities
and it lights the bonfires of the party.
The wine has an order. He leads
infinite life Elves:
with meat, Red, with seafood, White.
It is another flavor of meals.
And when it rains the heart, and the year
and the live firing of the day is burning,
wine, companion and solidarity
Moja sobbing and melancholy.
3
But, Sometimes the wine, prisoner of shadows,
out with the knife of profit, simulated,
removed from the Sun of their nobility
to handcuff the unarmed poor of the districts.
It corrupts the joy in the dastardly boliches
where to violate their lineage dyes and water
estragar man from wages to muddy him
frayed innocence who has her singing.
Sale of wine a fist. Leave a shout. It comes out
bad light of hate, the artful stab.
Dawn in the cell where urine contempt
and hoarsely cry your tears of fright.
Wine kill the wine in the House of the poor:
enter on Sunday and leave the women crying.
Malnourished children yawn astonishment
and from the darkness, sobs helplessness.
I have seen it on the mountain, violent as an axe,
drink the half and dawn vinegar.
It has hurt me in the tents of the harvesters
and in the rough forest mills of hunger.
Evening, in the taverns of the ports of the world,
He sings the voice of rogue choirs loss.
Prostituted in the laughter of the fallen woman
to the deep mudridero of the banished sex.
There goes in leathers, lubricious and halfway
the animal and man, howling, on all fours,
ethyl and gloomy, sad goat
digging into the dark the human condition.

Care wine abstemio usurer
that it castrates its ancient magic in the cellars
What, as a remote God, free joy
in what man has Bell Tower and bird.
It needs to be saved to metallic witchers wine
They humiliate and adulterate their nature of blood,
to replace pure man table
and fill the fragrant Joy House

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