I sip.
When your fingers embrace the glass waste, a smile awakens.
And the dream of a man asleep in a distant night.
It's been a long day and he's blown his soul
into many a glass.
A jasmine wind in your wrist caresses his pillow.
When your lip touches the tip of the glass,
thousands of wild horses begin to rush in his veins.
Their whinnying blends with the wine raining from above.
The nude women on horseback declare
him a hedonistic prophet.
You put the glass back on the table.
He wakes up, looks at his watch.
In an hour, he will enter a new day, like a long tunnel.