The Dead Vintner's Diary

I wake-up to a sudden wail probably, someone passed away the whistles of the melancholic tune of the passing winds made a woman weep, as the angels trumpet in no tune now chanting in unison without reason in the midst of forgotten tombstones, of marble rubble, where in silence lies the diary, in which the secret of growing vines could be found, the gardening ways of the ancient gods, yet in flick of time the vineyard will not be the same, as the rake stand rusting as days go by, and his epitaph, engraved from own sweat and blood has revealed that the sweet wine, the true essence of his spirit the glory that he had kept for years, is nothing, but me…