As solitary people weaving
esparto grass by the moon
I weave this words by my self.
Weave and weave into a basket
with no other aim but the beauty
of words themselves
crafted together like the ropes
in demijohns of wine.
I weave this words on and on.
I am a basket case of wine
the same wine sipped by Sappho
when just about to embrace Phaon
just about to jump
near the Leucadian cliffs.
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