From South of the vineyard, leaks
three drops, pressed from precious grapes that never felt the
swaddling cloth.
From East of the garden, he bleeds
for three days, trampled in the winepress of wrath, groaning in the pangs of
childbirth.
From South of the vineyard, leaks
three drops, pressed from precious grapes that never felt the
swaddling cloth.
From East of the garden, he bleeds
for three days, trampled in the winepress of wrath, groaning in the pangs of
childbirth.
Constrained by Love 
2 thoughts on “Pressed Grapes”