Vladimir Vysotsky. My Hamlet.

The Silly Dream.

The silly dream lambasted me
With a big truncheon.
I seemed in it quite vague to be,
And quite unsightly.
While sleeping, I betrayed and lied,
And ofttimes bowed...
I never had a thought that I
Could fall so low!
I hammered foes with my fists,
And did it madly,
But it was just a kind of twist,
My hands were flabby.

Confused and muzzy, from the dream
I would arouse,
But then my eyes would grow dim,
And I would drowse.
I didn’t walk fast, but dragged my feet
On the beaten road,
And I didn’t think of leaving it,
To find my own.
I truckled and crouched to the strong,
Stooped to the wayward.
I knew that all I did was wrong,
But lingered waking.

It’s rubbish! Half asleep, I heard
My own murmur.
But it was me, in fact, who’ve gotten
This dream, not someone.
When I came round, I discerned
My murmur’s meaning.
I opened my eyes, and though it hurt,
It was relieving.
The dream dissolved and yet it seems
To be still goading:
It, maybe, wasn’t a usual dream,
But a foreboding.

It gives me shakes as I ought to
Take a decision:
What was untrue and what was true
In this strange vision.
It’s great if it was just a sign,
A timely omen,
But what if in this dream of mine
I was clairvoyant?
Does what I dreamed tonight reflect
My thoughts? I doubt it!
But when I come to recollect,
I get dumbfounded.

And if it turns out that they judge,
“He knew all fully!”
I’ll feel disgust just as that night
When I deluded.
Or, it’ll be proved that death in fire
Beyond my power
I’ll be ashamed just as that night
When I was coward.
Or, I’ll be told, “Sing on the beam
Ye’ll be in clover!”
It’ll also show that my strange dream
Was a real forecast.

1971.

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