Ah-h, the grape!
rather divine
when stomped and beaten;
known for the juices treatin'
its fanciers just fine.
One of nature's mysteries
growing there on the vine;
one harvest yields nectar of the gods
another becomes raisins
when left to shrivel in time.
I prefer to pop the cork.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem