The man who died of love

Once upon a time, in a place not so very far away, there was a man who died of love.
Every morning, early, he would feel a pain in his heart while the sounds of life came in through his window.
The taste of honey and bread and coffee was turning his soul inside out.

He was working for love, giving magic to the street, leaving his skin in the scenario.
He would cry in the evenings, watching the sun falling behind the sea, and the pain would return deep inside.
He would say that the moon knew everything about humans, and when he saw it made him tremble.
Believing to keep a star into a golden casket that was over his table lamp.
He would dream of women’s sweet and tender smiles, but on waking the pain would return deep inside.

Yesterday the crying of the rain caused him too much pain, and he decided to die.
Everyone thought he was mad, but I cover his coffin with flowers every full moon because I know he died of love.