The Winking Beaker
I wish to turn the death into dead with ecstatic joys, while riding on the black horse with my sweetheart with her tender arms round my waist as a pillion rider. Let me bid adieu to melancholy and make way for the Lethe, leaving far behind the fret and fume of this mortal world. To flee the strains, I have to get under the shadow of vintage vines. The joy is not a joy unless you lose your identity and existence, getting drenched and drunk in the sweet vintage, while drinking to the dregs is a pre-requisite to pour out your full heart.
I wish to turn the death into dead with ecstatic joys, while riding on the black horse with my sweetheart with her tender arms round my waist as a pillion rider. Let me bid adieu to melancholy and make way for the Lethe, leaving far behind the fret and fume of this mortal world. To flee the strains, I have to get under the shadow of vintage vines. The joy is not a joy unless you lose your identity and existence, getting drenched and drunk in the sweet vintage, while drinking to the dregs is a pre-requisite to pour out your full heart.
The winking bubbles at the brim fade the sorrows into insignificance while investing me with the wings to fly to the skylark to enjoy the exquisite joys. Wishing for the Warm South while holding the blushful beaker is a spectacle which imparts rarity and longevity to the joys and merry making in the company of fairy like maidens. How beautiful it sounds to think of the Mont Helicon where the spring of wine flows from the richly coloured mouths of the Muses perched smugly on the Helicon embellished with beaded bubbles all around their necks.
Steal a movement from your precious time and let the happiness make your limbs grow numb in the ecstasy after sipping the sips of vintage or wine fetched from the far off places of the best regions of the world, while riding on the black horse with my sweetheart along the shore line in the moonlit night. I long for the unutterable excessive joy breaking the chains of hackneyed hours of dull routines and see the bliss beyond immortality, so, the sparkling bubbles make me tantalize and cause the tantalized mouth parched, hankering after the richly coloured fountains of wine, vintage and the branded brands. This mad pursuit eggs me on wild ecstasy and a struggle to escape to the land of sips blessed with bounties and joys unknown to miseries. Seeking a shelter from the mutability has always been a long standing hankering of the human beings. Each and every drop of wine affords the permanent refuge to man from the strains of life like clown’s fun-fury where I feast my eyes on.
No variance of moods exists on the part of the virgins while dancing on the beautiful and diamond like grapes reaped from the vines and the only mood of happiness stays permanently. How beautiful the image of the scene looks like when all the riddles are unriddled spontaneously, when the beaker touches the lips filled with unravished bride like wine and lifts me out from the parental darkness. As escorted with wine, my lips can sing better the tunes of love and joy as the silver silence squeezed from the wine commonly known as grape’s daughter spins me round steadily like the star in the sky keep their courses steady, in the same manner the ecstasy gleaned from this blessed water makes me pour my heart to the world unobtrusively.