In vino veritas (1960)

Why do the clouds lie so lazily,
sprawled across the evening sky?
Don’t they know the night wind holds their death,
flail to shred them, drive them all awry?

Why do dayflowers bloom in morning’s coolness,
when noon’s harsh heat will wither them away?

Why do we strive
to grow the sweet grapes of life
when life itself will one day crush them?

And will that yield a wine?
And, if so, who will drink it?