The sixth feeling

Вольный перевод стихотворения "Шестое чувство"
Николая Степановича Гумилёва

The wine that loves me is just fine
And so the bread that bakes itself for me,
The woman who is being mine
To torture first and then to be my glee.
What do we have to do then with the dawn,
Which is so pink and cold,
Which spreads itself like the mutest lawn,
Like poetry untold? You cannot drink it, cannot kiss,
It can’t be grasped or held;
And through your broken fingers flows –
The magic spilled and spelled.
It’s like a boy’s first wish
Which is unformed, uncertain,
When he sees some naked girls splashing like gay fish
Right through the bank’s green grassy curtain.
It is like a prehistoric creature’s cry
Of being unable to wave the missing wings
Midst ancient horsetail rotten pile
When it smelled the free sky’s winds.
So centuries have passed – When, dear Lord?
When in the name of Nature comes there our healing?
Our Spirit weeps, our flesh is bored
As we are trying to give the birth to our sixth feeling.