The man who dwells alone,
under the sorrow of the moon,
with a cry of many groan,
shall leave the world with a manner of swoon,
And for what?
For A spoon?!
And why?
Is it love? Love is death, love is joy and pain,
love is a boy with no brain.
You who dwell remember it’s a world of many spoons.
Words of a Poet 