A man in love becomes the worst possible witness. He cannot describe the woman he loves — he can only overwhelm you with the insufficiency of everything else. The moon has spots; she does not. The anicham flower is soft; she is softer. The lotus is beautiful; it would hang its head in shame beside her eyes. This chapter is not description. It is competitive annihilation — the lover dismantling the entire natural world, object by object, to prove that nothing in it deserves the comparisons people lazily assign to beauty. Valluvar gives us ten kurals in which a man addresses flowers, the moon, and his own bewildered heart, and in each case the verdict is the same: you are not enough. The rhetorical extravagance is the point. This is not a man trying to be accurate. This is a man trying to say something language was not built to carry.