The sixth sense
Be blessed the finest wine that 's loving us,
And the good bread that goes for us to a roaster,
And the hot woman that will first harass
But finally allow us to test her.
Yet, what we'll do with Phoebus' chariot
That conveys Sun, harnessed with its six horses,
With dawn cool and afterglow hot,
What shall we do with the immortal verses?
We cannot eat them, neither drink nor kiss.
They just perplex, astonish us and dazzle.
We only see that something is amiss,
Wring our hands, being helpless with the puzzle.
We're like a boy that watches girls' bath
Forgetting games for a new need so dire,
And knowing nothing yet about love
He's tortured by a very strange desire.
Like centuries ago, a slippery thing
In the gigantic horsetails, roared louder,
Because it felt that an unfledged wing
Was growing painfully right through its shoulder.
For thousands of years, working hard
On this sixth sense, nobody heared about,
The Lord, with the sharp scalpel of his art
An organ for this sense is carving out.
Перевод стихотворения Николая Гумилёва «Шестое чувство» на английский язык.