The old calabash

Still with its cracks
The old calabash
I’ll drink, I’ll pour
Out to come
The wine, the water
So sweet and Much more
So smooth from her lips carved.

To taste a solemn drink
I’ll not pour, I’ll drink
To provoke that hand
That abounds in fragrance
To hold a delicate dear
It’ll pour not only on the floor
We’ll drink, into our bowels.

Never from one imported
Bearing the anarchy of the ages!
We’ll drink, we’ll pour;
Not even its stinking rubber!
I’ll touch, I’ll pour.
Nor from its water!
I’ll drink, I’ll pour.
From what has now desecrated our land
We’ll never drink, I’ll never pour!