Gacela of Dark Death

I want to sleep the dream of apples,

to remove myself from the tumult of cemeteries.

I want to sleep the dream of that child

who wished to cut his heart on the high seas.

Do not tell me again that the dead do not lose their blood;

that the rotting mouth continues to ask for water.

I do not want to be told what martyrdom grass offers,

nor the moon with the mouth of a snake

which labors before daybreak.

I want to sleep a little while,

a little while, a minute, a century;

but all must know I have not died;

that there is a stable of gold on my lips;

that I am the little friend of the West wind;

that I am the boundless shadow of my tears.

Cover me by dawn with a veil,

because fistfuls of ants will be hurled at me,

and hard water will wet my shoes

so that the pincer of the scorpion may slide.

Because I want to sleep the dream of apples

to learn a lament to cleanse me of earth;

because I want to live with that dark child

who wished to cut his heart on the high seas.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 2005
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