They say it's because love is gone
that it happens this way.
The strong house's foundation won't hold,
touching the sari's edge brings no joy,
the enchanting flute refuses to play,
the heart won't deck itself in festive array.
They say it's because love is gone
I scrawl nonsense in my notebook,
and suddenly the wind turns around
to blow the wrong way.
They say it's because love is gone
that it happens this way.
At the root of all values I see
terrible decay.
In the green forest's graceful trees
the doel dances, the finch dances.
Yet some magician seems to cast
a spell upon the eye's dark center—
I lose myself to my own self
like chess or gambling's wager.
They say it's because love is gone
I clutch at straws,
search the folds of green grass
for some blessed refuge.
I asked you for flowers,
rowed through raging currents too;
a thousand words to bewitch the mind,
the inability to forget,
burning, burning in relentless flame—
I learn this because love was never there.
If it's because love is gone
that it happens this way,
why does the heart accept defeat
in everything it tries?
Why can't there be green-colored
struggle-revolt-burning-uprising?
Why can't the sky cover itself with clouds
and break the backs of all the gamblers?
Why can't there be an enchanting picture,
exactly as the poet would arrange it?
They say it's because love is gone
I keep asking senseless questions,
speak in laments and ravings
and waste away time!