When all is said and done, no literature can outdo the cynicism of real life; you won't intoxicate with one glass someone who has already drunk up a whole barrel. - Anton Chekhov

The dream


In Daghestan, no cloud its hot sun cloaking,
A bullet in my side, I lay without
Movement or sound, my wound still fresh and
And drop by drop my Hfeblood trickling out.

Stretched on the sand I lay, and darkly round me
The jutting hills hung motionless. ... Upon
Their tops the sun poured full; its bright rays
                                        found me
And burnt me too-but I slept soundly on.

I dreamt about my homeland and a merry
And glittering feast where all was noise and glee
And where young wives, flower-garlanded, in airy
And lightsome talk indulged, and spoke of me.

But there was one who sat there pensive, buried
In thought remote: alone she waxed not gay.
By sorrowful dreams her youthful soul was carried,
Why, only Heaven knew, far, far away.

'Twas Daghestan's bright vale that she did dream of -
A man lay there whom she had known of old.
A black wound in his side gaped and a stream of
Blood from it came that, slowing, fast turned cold.  

[English] [Russian TRANS | KOI8 | ALT | WIN | MAC | ISO5]
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Apukhtin A. N.
Baratynsky E.A.
Batyushkov K.N.
Benediktov V.
Del'vig A.
Fet A.
Grebeonka E.
Griboedov A.
Grigoriev A.A.
Koltsov A.
Krylov I.
Kuyhelbeker V.
Lermontov M.
Maykov A.
Mey L.
Nekrasov N.
Ogarev N.
Pavlova K.
Pleshcheev A.
Polonsky Y.
Pushkin A.
Rostopchina E.
Soloviev V.S.
Surikov I.
Tolstoy A.
Tyutchev F.
Yazykov N.M.
Zhukovsky V.
Zhemchuzhnikov A.