This reminds me of a chapter from Eduardo Galeano's Book of Embraces:
On his deathbed, a man of the vineyards spoke into Marcela's ear. Before dying, he revealed his secret:
'The grape,' he whispered, 'is made of wine.'
Marcela Pérez-Silva told me this, and I thought: If the grape is made of wine, then perhaps we are the words that tell who we are.
I found this text on the New Internationalist site where you can read more excerpts from Galeano.