In the Shadow of Vermion

Once I commanded earth and sky, bent fire to my ancient will,

summoned water with a sigh, and made the wind itself stand motionless.

They called me archmage, spoke my name in marble halls where power dwells.

But glory felt too much like shame, so I fled those gilded miseries.

Now in these northern mountain folds, where November mist descends,

I tend the vines that no one holds in high regard, my only companions.

Xinó, sour like my weary heart, mavro, black as magic's cost.

These grapes know well the bitter art of all that I have loved and strayed.

The earth remembers every spell, the limestone soil keeps secrets deep.

The fire of summer burned too well; now autumn makes the mountain cry.

I coax the water through the roots, measure rain against the rot.

Harvest these reluctant fruits in this forgotten, sacred area.

The wind that once obeyed my call now batters vines with careless force.

The elements care not at all for wizards who've abandoned their routes.

These grapes are fierce with tannin's bite, their structure taut as a spider's thread.

They age in darkness, shunning light, like me, half-living, nearly deceased.

My neighbors think of me just a man who grows difficult, demanding vin de table.

They cannot see the power that ran through veins now stained with purple-fine.

I bottle loneliness each year, seal sadness into every glass,

let others taste what brought me here: the weight of knowing nothing lasts.

Four elements within my grasp, yet all I hold is stem and leaf.

An archmage's final, fading gasp fermented into noble sadness.