Spring on the old vine

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Ah you think spring lost when you saw this crumpled vine? No, another pearl of life will drip on this wrinkled wood. Wonderful mirage? O miracle! To the ravaging kisses of time, he survived! This year again, he will bequeath to the whole world the sacred fruit of his flesh, the obsolete wine, a noble beverage. The surrounding nature, with inquisitive looks, had observed, at the first hours of dawn, the possible revival of withered woods. At the flower ad, she shuddered when thinking of the sacred wonder! Mysterious symphony of ages, choir of happy harmony between two generations, cheerful colocation. In the frosty harshness of winter, the proud old man sends out fragrant buds. The azure ether drinks, the head turned upside down in a cotton tablecloth, the soft spring melody. "Ah, how good it feels to still be alive," thinks the whole creation, delicately caressing the flowery promises.

Against this ghost with icy bites, which gallops in the meadows carpeted with alabaster, under the raging sky, the old vine, panting, fought bravely. Oh if you know how she trembled during frozen periods, afraid of never waking up again, knocked out by the sleep of the righteous. Ah, she thinks, what a sad feeling it must be, one fine morning, to see oozing with its white shroud purple tears of life, which drown, unconscious, in a vile pool, slaughtered by the sinister lady at the false. An unjust death far from the paparazzi chirping of spring. Alone. Sadly alone. Forced into a funeral wedding, merged against its will into the adored land, lost in a heap without its own identity. Marriage without reason. "Me miserum" she yelled, echoing the elegiac poets, thinking of mortal fate. What a misfortune must be to become a stranger in a world for which we have given intoxicating flesh and nectar! Perhaps it is this existential rage that means that this year again it will bequeath its heritage to those thirsty for wine, poetry, and instant timelessness: the divine fruit of its entrails, noble grapes. Rejoice in love with colorful life, promising spring ... the old vine bears on its breast the tricolor, green pink and yellow jewel, which it proudly brandishes on its mixed wood.

Spring on the old vine
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LocationMontagne en Gironde (France)
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