The Sixth Sense

It's priceless — wine, that falls in love with us,
And bread, that sits for us in oven, — priceless treasure,
And priceless is a woman that, at last,
After all torments, we possess for pleasure.

But what to do with clear light of dawn,
When sky's, like heaven, peaceful, deep and solemn?
And what to do with words that have been born
To stay forever — with immortal poem?

We cannot drink it, cannot eat or kiss.
The moment slips, unstoppable as breathing,
And, desperate, we're destined just to miss —
We're so close, but keep missing, missing...

We're like a boy, who suddenly forgets
His game seeing a girl, undressed, in river.
He does not have a clue for love — not yet,
But some unknown longing makes him shiver.

We're like an ugly prehistoric being,
A reptile shaking ferns with helpless groan,
Whose shoulders burn because of cutting wings —
Millenniums before wings grow.

Age after age — Oh, Lord, how much remains? —
With Arts and Nature — two merciless surgeons,
Our spirit cries, and flesh nearly breaks
In throes of giving birth to Sixth Sense Organ.

Nikolai Gumilev "The Sixth Sense"