Our Wine Autumn

Our wine autumn,
Still,
Sweetly fermented
Embraces.
Golden hues
Of grapes
Swirl
In the autumn
Breeze,
Whispering secrets
To the harvest moon.

Leaves,
Discarded
Like shattered glass,
Adorn
The vineyard floor.
A thousand stories
Lie beneath,
Crushed
And forgotten.

Remember
That ancient summer,
When the sun
Kissed our lips,
And laughter
Spilled
Like wine?
Now,
The days grow shorter,
The nights colder,
As if mocking
Our drunken
Memories.

In the hollows
Of blackberries,
Where sweetness
Dances
On the tongue,
We find peace
For our fading days.
But even
As we sip,
The taste is tinged
With melancholy.

The vineyard,
Once a sanctuary,
Now a graveyard
For dreams.
The vines,
Like weary dancers,
Bowed
And withered
Under the weight
Of time's
Relentless march.

Yet still,
We gather,
To drink
The remnants
Of a fading season.
To taste
The bittersweet
Notes,
That linger
On our tongues,
As we mourn
The passing
Of our wine autumn.

In each glass,
A drop of nostalgia,
Beckoning us
To remember
The time
When life flowed
Freely,
And our hearts
Were full
As the vineyard.
But now,
We sip in silence,
Knowing
That all things
Must change.

Our wine autumn,
A fleeting beauty,
Gone too soon.
But we raise
Our glasses,
Because
In the golden hues
Of grapes,
We find hope,
And a promise
Of another vintage,
Yet to come.