That secret fingered place, of times gone by,
Where old bottled nectar quietly sleeps &
lies,
Where wooden kegs slumber & so does wine,
Embraced by silken cobwebs & in dust, entwined,
That sighing place that whispers in boozy breath,
Echoing of promised life to come & tales
of death,
Those luring glints, of gold, ruby-rose &
garnet reds,
La Bodega, where bubbles lay their drunken heads,
That sacred place, of adobe walls, cobbles &
cork,
Where insatiable palates, leave no room for
talk,
Where drunken mice stagger & the old men
dream,
And within cool shadows, life´s not what it
seems,
La Bodega, of vino tinto & stamp of flamenco
feet,
That place, where life with dust, gathers to
meet.
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