The Sorrows of the Basin

Is there no postman in your city?
Did you never receive my letter?
Or is there no post office at all in your city?
You could never send me a reply to your letter, is that it?

Does no golden morning dawn in your city?
Did you never find me in that golden light of morning?
Or does the sun god have no desire to visit your city at all?
You found no golden light anywhere to discover me, is that it?

Do the incomparable ones in your city never feel melancholy?
Did you never find me searching in that sadness?
Or is your city utterly unaccustomed to the incomparable?
You never noticed any melancholy of the incomparable to find me, is that it?

Do the pages of stories in your city never hold fairy tales?
Did you never find me disguised as a sorrowful princess?
Or have all the colors of fairy tales faded in your city?
You could never find a royal palace to see me in such a form, is that it?

Does love never happen on evening verandas in your city?
Did you never find me there as such a lover?
Or does not even a single evening ever descend in your city?
You found no love on an evening veranda to think of me as a lover, is that it?

Is there no crimson beauty in the intense fragrance of bakul flowers in your city?
Did you never find me searching in that beauty?
Or have all the bakul flowers in your city long since withered and fallen?
You could never find that crimson, beautiful one to have me, is that it?

Does love in your city no longer intoxicate like before?
Did you never find me groping through the mist of that intoxication?
Or is there not a trace of addiction to intoxication in anyone's blood in your city?
To love me, to be drunk — alas, you found no intoxication at all, is that it?