gacela of the dark death

i want to sleep the dream of the apples

to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries

i want to sleep the dream of that child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas

i don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood

that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water

i don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass

nor of the moon with the serpent's mouth that labors before dawn

i want to sleep a while

a while

a minute

a century

but all must know that i have not died

that there is a stable of gold in my lips

that i am the small friend of the west wind

that i am the immense shadow of my tears

cover me at dawn with a veil

because dawn will throw fists full of ants at me

and wet with hard water my shoes

so that the pincers of the scorpion slide

for i want to sleep the dream of the apples

to learn a lament that will cleanse me of the earth

for i want to live with that dark child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas