” Winegrower rhymes “
Words, too, can sing through rhythm and rhyme. The ideas they express then take on a particular relief that allows the mind to escape to other horizons … Who, these days, can fail to marvel at the fantastic advances in human knowledge engendered by the breathtaking progress of science? … Man’s drive for ever-greater knowledge seems inexhaustible! Everything is analyzed and dissected, and we want to find answers to all the whys and wherefores. The world of vines and wine is not entirely immune to this whirlwind of rationalism, where the secret of the marvellous, the mysterious, not to say the sacred, no longer seems to have a place.
What’s more, in parallel and in addition to this, regulations, in their often fussy and stupid deviations, intrude here and there in paralyzing intrusions on the view of the winegrower, a true artist, heir to age-old traditions and know-how; not to mention, of course, the more or less poisonous meanders that lead to the bad trials made of wine. And yet! yes, yet, the ever-present and tenacious dream sparked by the convivial magic of wine, the moments of emotion that accompany the opening of great bottles, do they not lead us towards a secret and mysterious meeting of the real, . of the real, and of the imaginary, in a world far beyond the most sophisticated oenological techniques, the most advanced analytical bulletin and, even more, the written records of handling and regulatory traceability of an “operator”. This is what I heard whispered into my winegrower’s ear, sometimes in the morning mists or the quivering breezes sweeping through the vineyards, sometimes in the talkative silence and hushed darkness of the cellars. I offer it to you unpretentiously, asking above all your indulgence for these modest amateur rhymes.
CONFIDENCES DE VIN NOBLE
My father, a winemaker, married for love
On this beautiful corner of the earth where I was born one day.
It’s my identity, a title of nobility,
That’s where I received my virtues, my riches.
My family is well known in my homeland,
My ancestors were entitled to a crystal glass.
He who created me, skilful and industrious,
Preserved for me the vines of his ancestors.
To the rhythm of the seasons, my nurturing mother
Distilled for me a thousand flowers, a thousand stones,
And gorged himself on pure air with the scent of earth
Whose slightest implants searched the millennia.
From the sun’s rays she took the best
Those who belong here and not elsewhere.
Autumn has adorned me with a marvellous backdrop
Where green merges with fire and gold.
The grape-picker singing, respecting my nature,
Filled his basket with my ripe grapes.
With the respect due to noble knights
I was taken from the vineyard to the cellar,
And there by the power of my own leaven,
From grape I became wine.
My father was a winemaker, with the hands of an artist,
Modulated his care like a true concert performer,
In her precise gestures, passion could be read
As sacred rites steeped in tradition.
He has maintained his healthy practices,
For a good rest, the lightning or the barrel.
So, in secret, drawing on my roots,
I was able to mark the seal of my noble origin;
Eager for harmony, refining my colors
In a symphony of scents and flavours,
I engraved in silence, in serenity,
A hundred messages of joy, happiness and cheerfulness,
A hundred messages of love, my simple truths.
R.R.