6th Sense

The wine, which is in love with us,
is wonderful
So is the bread, which went through agony of oven,
And woman we are destined to embrace
And to enjoy after exhausting chase.

But what about scarlet sunrise
Above unearthly calm of freezing heavens
Filled up with silence,
What shall we do with the immortal poems?

Consumption isn't helpful –
Trying to eat, to drink, to kiss them –
The flash of time is so transcendental,
Yes, we despair, but confined
We are to pass them by.

Just like a boy is mesmerised,
Oblivious of games,
by woman bathing,
Tormented by mysterious desire,
However, he doesn't know the love.

Just like a slimy creature
was roaring helpless
among the lush of ferns
tormented by anticipation
of growing wings
before the eon times,

And so we are, still centuries to go
And when, O Lord, please let us know,
We, chiselled by the art and carved by nature,
Tormented spirit roars, the flesh is aching,

In agony of giving birth to organ, which can sense
And play the music of the 6th Sense.

 (by Nikolay Gumilyov, 1920
 translation by Svetlana Rakhimova, 2013)