They call me Passum. I come from time past and I have no fear of the future. I can be recognised by the symbol, red like my body. It’s fun to listen to people trying to interpret that icon: it could be a sun, maybe it’s an ancient letter of the alphabet, or an archaic, mysterious identification mark. I am what I am. I represent the tenacity of the people who have believed in me and the strength of the vineyard that’s my mother.
A poet from a far-off land below the Equator wrote, “When we're speaking, I like to see the light of a bottle of intelligent wine on the table”.
I’m keen to hear the witty remarks of others.
For those who understand me, I speak of exertions and worries, of rigid choices and successes. Mine is a long road and I’ve never taken shortcuts. Anyone who meets me can trust me. I’ll take them where the hills are like women’s breasts, mountains a glistening crown of snow. This is where I’m born. Passum, packed with life experience, as seductive as a suitor from days gone by.
I know that when my bottle’s empty, it will stay on as a memory of words not wasted and as a memorable meeting we’d like to repeat.