Life, is an ornate, invisible amphora; an amphora into which gets dropped, the human spirit. As the rich, juicy grape goes, he drops not by his own volition, but the vintner's hand dealing. Wherefore then, does one wonder, the vat exist; for whose soul gets satiated, he quips.
The master crushing to wine, the cellars dark but for them fine. His juices sapped he remains; his spirit goes on, all through his pains. Alohomora! cries the kid that sees, a nice amphora washed away through the seas. Two of them call some more; pains, never theirs to bear in their core.
"A poor spirit this", one cries, as another vintner pulls it to its own demise. Cycles of wines come by and go, seasons and amphorae; humans little know.
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