I could compose a poem of my sorrows, but it would not speak my heart of hearts. What is the word 'sorrow'? In my heart, I see that it means nothing. Grey letters upon a greying page with no substance behind it. All these feelings that reach so deeply into my soul -- can one word truly describe it? No, not a word, not a poem. There is no language for that which I feel; o, the breath of my life has been stolen from me. Here, I lay gasping, as the sun sets on a dark horizon. My time is finished. My day is done.
For what can a man do, deprived of his cutlery? Oh, my sweet Spoon. Can you truly be gone from me? Must I bury my head in the bosom of some woman, some other man, and weep until the tide rises once more? Dear my love, come back to me. I reach for you but all I find is the cold. The cold sand that slips through my fingers. Cruel world. O, cruel world that has such people in it.
The ink runs dry from my pen, but my tears fill the well once more!