Yet 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,
And 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 sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
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Oscar Wilde wrote this poem while he was in jail for having an affair with another man. On the surface, the ballad recounts how a man has been convicted to be hanged for killing the woman whom he loved. On a deeper level, it questions why do we often kill what we love --I know I have. I've killed my ego but it never dies, some of my dreams, some lustful desires, some virtuous ways, etc. All in all, I've killed a lot of things that were not acceptable or maybe that needed obliteration because I loved them too much. Ouch!
Sadly to say but I am the one who would probably kill with a kiss --too chicken to use a dagger.
