'Lori, aren't you asleep?
Lori, d' you hear?'
'Quiet, duck your head down! It could seem
they're scarce a foot away. You can't talk here.'
'Lori, but it was such a lovely dream!...'
'How did it start?... Now, let me think...oh, yes...
The war is over... we are free
and plants and everything possess,
you understand, Lori?
I am at work. The selfsame plant of old,
the same machines I always knew,
but all a-glitter as pure gold,
and all full of some vigour new.
You're in the plant, Lori, and overseer,
and say: 'I want three hundred bolts today!'
'Well, right you are, Lori, that's fine, I'm here!'
and both of us are pleased and gay.
And outside the heavens are so bright!...
The air so pure! the space so blue!
And breathing is so light, so light!
You can't believe yourself it's you.'
Lori gazed at the other's eyes
(what boyish hope did they express!)
and, smiling, said in mock surprise:
'You're such a dreamer, Fernandez!'
The stars grew dimmer in the east. The night
in panicky retreat
disorderly drew back.
A call to fight!
Then started the attack...
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Comments about this poem (A Dream by Nikola Vaptsarov )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
- Vikram G. Aarella
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
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