Tender, sweet young vines of promise,
I blistered my hands under a burning sun when I built
your fences.
I exhausted every muscle when I constructed the watch tower
to keep my eyes on your delicate fruit
and I gave up the peace of the night to keep you safe
I broke my back and bruised my knees when I dug the soil
at your base
It pained my heart when I made the wine press
even though I knew you were made to be crushed between two stones
so you could become what I'd planted you to be.
I cared more for you. . .
Yet you synthesized the sun for your spoil,
and took ravages from the soil;
favoring foul waters you
spurned the sweet fountain
despite everything I did for you...
and I didn't know, couldn't know...
until I tasted your sour, wild grapes,
whose harsh acid I still taste on my tongue,
whose bitter flavor still makes me cry, and
whose smooth, firm skin still deceives my eye
I loved you,
but can do nothing with wild grapes.
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