The Vintner spilled his cup,
Soaked me in his blood.
Slowly
He untangles my lubricated limbs,
Loosing
And pulling
My roots from the dry ground’s lustful hold
So I’m not caught up in myself or earth
—dust and dust, dust to dust—
forever.
Now I, once a wild olive tree,
Am a refugee,
No home, no choice except to wander the world,
Waiting for the Vintner to put our eight thousand years
Worth of bottled tears
To use
and drown the enemy.
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