Shines of sun upon those blues,
Like small pearls hanging in yard,
Scattered across, around my sight,
In a vineyard, in a row.
Picking-up each from the winter shine,
Slowly filling up in the barrel,
Some were covered, of the frost,
Some were up, on the climber.
Of all the happy men, around me,
Taste the good of mine chosen,
Drink and dance and merry around,
Of each blues, from each barrel.
Heading my head, towards the row,
Silently I work, on those fruits,
As this winter is not for long,
As my soul, is sure to lost.