We find that the wine industry has managed to create an emancipated and vigorously exposed lexical field in our eyes, eager not only for drunkenness. We want our imaginations to be lit up too, to make us feel educated, unique, special. We want to be the seven-language parrot. And for this to happen, both in the tastings and in the labels of the wines we can see how the magic and power of language operate with sparkling impartiality, and they leave us something resembling the ancient magic spells, a river of poetry in whose waters live together in public harmony secretes of ruminants, aromas of flint, terpenic notes , butters and hides. The locus amoenus of an involuntary poetic avant-garde that adds us in a delicious and contradictory perplexity.