She was his most beautiful rose, the jewel of his garden, but he simply could not love her as she deserved. As autumn strips the flowers, so he felt, unable to give her the eternal spring she longed for.
Some evenings, like the urutau, he would give her his sorrows and laments by singing to the moon. ‘Don't love me so much,’ he begged her, for his heart was occupied by other affections beyond their idyll.
She was the crystal stream that quenched his thirst, but he, like a fiery lightning bolt, feared to harm her if he came too close. Tears streamed down her face as he walked away, imploring her return.
He was aware that her love would only bring him suffering. Like the winter that freezes even the most delicate roses, he knew that his very closeness would hurt her irreparably.
And though her heart belonged to him, something inside him prevented him from loving her completely. So he chose to admire her beauty from a distance, shielding her from the ice that threatened to trap her.
