This world is but a winery,
Its host and master Father Time,
Who caters only to those steep’d
In dreams discordant, without rhyme.
For people drink and race as though
They were the steeds of mad desire;
Thus some are blatant when they pray,
And others frenzied to acquire.
Few on this earth who savor life,
And are not bor’d by its free gifts;
Or divert not its streams to cups
In which their fancy floats and drifts.
Should you then find a sober soul
Amidst this state of revelry,
Marvel how a moon did find
In this rain cloud a canopy.
- Khalil Gibran