WINES
A brisk, wintry gale
Glides sonorously
With the fresh scent of holly,
Over a frozen dale.
In my lover’s dark eyes
There sighs an ebony symphony,
Beneath the cloudy, soporific skies.
We walk as pilgrims,
As the gale departs,
In the darkness of the moonlight,
On the meadows of the misty night,
As our felicity brims,
In the carafe of our hearts,
With delicious wines, flowing white.
~ John Lars Zwerenz
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