Time is a wine uncorked and well-aged,
of vintage untraceable, a bottle from whose
infinite depths all men satisfy and slake
their need for life and oblivion,
till, quavering, they heave and wretch forth
their measured existence and give way
to eternal slumber. They wake not knowing
whence they came nor to where they’ve arrived.
Their head aches, their body reels. Foolishly,
they believe they have survived. Their entire lives
seem but dreams—all fortune pursued, forgotten.
In that sober country, those who lived most soberly
are well prepared. Therefore, drink of time and relish it,
but of beverages that may promise a fuller life,
beware.
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