On The Verge Of Waking And Of Sleep Poem by Sergey Dobrenkov

On the verge of waking and of sleep,
Where does my dreaming fancy stray?
Into what chasms, bottomless and deep,
What starry wanderings far away?

All was so logical—then, crack…
The links all vanished without a cause,
The broken circle closing back,
Inside-out pictures float against all laws.

And I am still the same, yet otherwise,
I soar above a starry ocean,
And all the planets, in strange guise,
Circle, a ghostly caravan in motion.

And I have long since left the Earth,
Around me nets of fate are thrown,
What little thread in this dim haze
Will be my shaky guide, alone?

Then—such a void, an empty vast,
Beyond the boundaries of the past,
I'm god, I'm slave, I'm glory from a dust,
And I'm eternally reborn, being last.*

What music in my breast
Sings, pulses, trembles, flying—
She worries in the silent rest,
And slanders with idle torment sighing.

By what holy strength am I
Cast upon a flat, bare strand—
All is over. And my cry
Wheezes above a swollen gland…

…………………………………………………

*Then—such a void, an empty vast,
Beyond the boundaries of the past,
I'm god by Grace, I'm humble slave,
I'm glory created from a dust,
And I'm eternally reborn, being last.