A morbid dream obsessively weighs on me lately. I see it only hazily. Why does it hate me? Within it I betray and lie, fawning and crawling. I never would have thought that I was so appalling. I clench my fists, put on a show, cursing and damning, Although I know, and others know, Iím only shamming. The dream grows dim and dimmer still, I hope itís vanished. It reappears, against my will to see it banished. I do not stride, I mince along, acting, dissembling. I keep in step, donít get it wrong, in fear and trembling. I crawl to men more strong than I, Iím weak and shaken. I loathe myself, but though I try, I canít awaken. Here madness lies! I hear a groan. Acutely, plainly. I hear myself, the dreamís my own, I argue vainly. I wake, and hear that groan again, the dream is finished. I open up my eyes with pain, but fearís diminished. As I lie prone upon the bed, the dreamís before me. Have dreams come true? This thought like lead hangs grimly oíer me. I feel a shudder down my spine. I mutter hoarsely. Did the dream show this soul of mine in truth, or falsely? But it was just a dream, forsooth! How lucky for me. Yet could that dream have told the truth in how it saw me? Do dreams reflect thoughts from the day? It canít be true, though! And yet, in some distorted way, they seem to do so.         And now, theyíd put me to the test? Iíve no heart for it. Iím just a coward, like all the rest, though I abhor it. Conform, they say, and have no fear; theyíll be forgiving. And now I know, the dream is here. Itís what Iím living.
© Jack Doughty. Translation, ?