Birthed of earth is the blessed vine and from it in turn comes finest wine. In wine there is truth, and it is a truth of many things. In wine there is all of what life life brings.
From the sweetest wines we draw the truth of love and life and too the way to quarrel and hard-fought strife, to find that best lit corner of heart and hearth, to make peace and war bound in madness and in mirth.
In the dry there is the taste of bitter and cruel defeat, mourning for the past before the altar or at death’s very feet but too of fine deep thought far and unto heaven cast in society of such wise ones as we may meet.
In the red there is the truth of blood, of all generations gone before, begotten in love and lust, and past, gone away and fell to dust. Too the tie of men unto the land and to the last, parted should he die for lack to break his fast.
In the white there we hold the truth of light and all things reborn as new and bold. Grown up from darkest earth and gladdened in the sun, thence unto winemakers hands and done within the bottle and unto tongue.
Proper rains and rich placed earth, bring vine and truth and wine forth unto birth, neath open sky and raven’s perch.
There the final truth of the vine, that all that would be must ever be born and grown and wrought and die in time to return once more unto the earthen womb to come again.