The silly dream had beaten me With a big truncheon, And in that dream, as I could see, I wasnít catching. For in my sleep I told a lie, Betrayed and dreaded... I really didnít know that I Was so degraded. I also saw me clench my fist And then hit out. It was a kind of twist of wrist, Unstrained, soft clout. All of a sudden, from the dream I would arouse, But then my eyes would grow so dim, And I would drowse. I didnít walk, but dragged my feet Along the paling. I only tried to step on it In fear and trembling. I fawned like crazy on the strong, Stooped to the wayward. I knew that all I did was wrong but wasnít wakened. Itís rubbish! Half asleep, I heard My own murmurs, And it was I, in fact, who had - That dream. Not others. When I came round I discerned My murmurís meaning. I blinked my eyes, and though it hurt It was relieving. My vision hovering above Crawled on the ceiling. Prophetic dream? So here I have The question sneering. It gave me shivers for I had To take decision: What was a lie and what was right About my vision. For if a dream is just a dream I should be joyous. But what if itís the vicious scheme Of clairvoyance? Are dreams what our days reflect? Oh no, I doubt it! But when I come to recollect I get dumbfounded.         And when I hear: "Burn!" I seem To have no spirit. Iíll be ashamed like in the dream Where I was timid. Or if they say: "Sing on the beam. Be energetic!.." And I will know that itís a dream Which is prophetic.
© Alec Vagapov. Translation, 1999