It was not
 Roses
and fields strewn with

sunlight and summer breezes it was

Sitting at the foot of waterfalls, being 
pelted by a concentrated rain.

It may be cowardly to restrain love like a secret,
But I am in a warring state: the battle of my eyes
to tear themselves from the ground
And meet the face and the voice I’ve so come to adore;
How do I see?
in the darkness of a night

induced by disagreed sources of light;

Misdirected attention;

The shade of unrequited affection?
What is the substance of cowardice, then?