Roofs remain cool under leaves of watered vines green with budding grapes –
fruits of sultry solstice dewed with sudden drops of cumulus rains and swept
with winds let loose ineffably across my face and yours, flustering sleepy
birds in the distant bamboos only to confide that they will live to sing the
break of dawn. These grapes, these forerunners of ferment touch me as
mortal counterparts to stars in the clearing sky.

Yes, it’s good to drink and be, let be, and be with friends; it’s good to drink,
love, think freely and be numbly wise. A temple of Tolerance this wine may
be – for itself and – for cock and crow and the blare of bulls. But
distance, distance, softly from a distance, ring softly, Mindlessness, in my long
ears! Like all dismay one bears in any shared human maze, I will heed you so
long as my glass is full and we turn our tides in tune.

—
Taimur Khan