Ripe grapes on the vines, rain drops running down them.
Little spiders, hiding behind green leaves.
Grape pickers ready for harvest, it’s only just dawn.
Mist covers the fields, the air is chilly.
Pickers sipping their coffee, overlooking the fields.
They’ll handpick the grapes, just as their elders.
Year after year, barrels piled up inside.
To make wine, sweet as love. Or drier, with hints of figs.
The picking starts, as the sun rises.
Singing old songs, remembering past times.
Old baskets, slowly filled to the brim.
And as the sun sets, they still sing.
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