Jeanne Moreau

Each man Kills the Thing he loves

Each man kills the thing he loves, by each let
this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look, some
with a flattering word. The coward does it with a
kiss, the brave man with a sword. Some kill their
love when they are young, some when they are old.
Some strangle with the hands of lust, some with
the hands of gold. The kindest use a knife
because, the dead so soon grow cold. Some love too
little, some too long, some buy and other sell.
Some do the deed with so many tears, and some
without a sigh. For each man kills the thing he
loves, yet each man does not die.