Classic Poem

July in my hometown
Is the season of the ripening, deep blue grapes.

Legends cluster thick about the village,
And each day the sky descends in a dream, pressing deep into each fruit.

Beneath the blue sky the green sea unlocks its heart,
And a boat comes gliding, its white sail spread.

As I hear that my weary guest has come,
Tired body draped in a robe of deep blue,

In welcoming him, if I pluck these blue grapes,
What does it matter if my two hands are drenched?

There, child, on our low table's silver platter,
Set out the white linen cloths.