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 dont want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,

that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.

I dont want to learn of the tortures of the grass,

nor of the moon with a serpents 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.

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