A sorrow fills me; like wine gives clear glass color, so I am glass, ready to break and stain your shirt with my tears. Yet, do not touch, do not topple, let me alone, and I will stand a sparkling invitation, dark and ruddy. Sip from me, and forget your sorrow. Smile and rest. I give comfort, and in giving, become empty of my own pain.
Sorrow is my color, my flavor, and I do not know what I am now but its glistening. Come, dance with Bacchus; let me fall empty from your hand and shatter upon the floor.
Tale Told 