Gacela of the Dark Death

 I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.

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 a serpent's mouth
that labors before dawn.


I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, 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 wing;
that I am the intense shadows of my tears.


Cover me at dawn with a veil,
because dawn will throw fistfuls 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 to earth;
for I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

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