I feel the love: I am like that puissant Sun, I am like that staunchest lover, who burns himself in the daytime, but never ever comes to her front. Following the order of her hatred, I never come. Developing achulophobia, I hide and see her swell beauty in the bosom of sky. Yes, she is the moon, for whom I am accursed. Yes, she is the moon, for whom I am a persona non grata. Is this love, is this love when the darkness taunts me, I whisper that I have embraced achulophobia because of love, I feel the love in her hatred, I feel the love in her rejection?