One night the soul of the wine sang in the bottles:
«Man, towards you I raise, oh! dear disinherited,
under my glass prison and my crimson seals,
a song full of light and brotherhood!
Over the burning hill, I know how much it takes
of grief, of sweat and burning sun
to engender my life and to infuse my soul;
But I will be neither ungrateful nor harmful.
Well, I experience immense joy when I fall
in the throat of a man consumed by his work,
and her warm chest is a sweet grave
in which I feel much better than in my cold cellars.
Do you hear the Sunday songs resound
And the hope that gurgles in my throbbing chest?
Elbows on the table and rolled up,
you will glorify me and you will feel happy.
I will illuminate the eyes of your raptured wife;
I will return to your son his strength and his colors
and I will be for that fragile athlete of life
the ointment that strengthens the muscles of the fighters.
In you I will fall, vegetable ambrosia,
precious grain thrown by the eternal sower,
so that poetry is born from our love
that will sprout towards God like a rare flower! »