Tuesday, July 19, 2005

 

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 childwho 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 mouththat 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 a 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 fistfuls of ants at me,and wet with hard water my shoesso that the pincers of the scorpions 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 childwho wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.



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