Nikolay Zabolotsky
A dream

Earth-dweller, fifty years of age,
Like all men, both happy and unhappy,
One day I left this world and found
Myself in a silent place.
There, man scarcely existed, the last
Shreds of habit clinging to him,
And he no longer desired anything,
He had no name, no style or title.
Participant in this amazing game,
I did not gaze upon the packed faces
But lay down in the smoke of bonfires —
Rose, only to lie down again.
I drifted away, I wandered far,
Will-less, indifferent, silent,
Shielded myself from the faint light
Of the vanished earth with my hand.
There was in me still some echo
Of reality, of existence,
But already, my spirit yearned
To be not spirit but part of the universe.
There, through space, compounds
Of various materials moved towards me,
Bridges of immense girth
That spanned vast, craterous abysses.
I well remember the appearance of
These bodies that floated to me out of space:
The interlacing girders, the bulkiness of slabs,
And the crudeness of their primitive design.
There was no trace of subtlety about them,
The art of form clearly was not prized high,
And the hardships of labour were not noticeable,
Though all the world was moving and at work.
Nor did I witness in that place
The least show of force by the powers that be,
And even I, deprived of will and passionless,
Did all I had to without effort.
I had no reason not to want to,
Just as there was no desire to strive,
I was prepared to travel in the future too
If this might serve some purpose.
As companion I had a little boy
Who chatted endlessly of trivial things.
And even he, though he was like the mist,
Was more material than spiritual.
This boy and I went out onto a lake,
He cast a line that was lost beneath,
And with a leisurely gesture brushed away
Something that floated up from earth.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort