GACELA OF DARK DEATH

I long to sleep the sleep of apples,
go far away from the turmoil of cemeteries.
I long to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart on the high sea.

I do not want to hear that the dead lose no blood,

that the putrid mouth goes on thirsting.
I do not want to know of torments grass produces,
nor of the moon with its serpent mouth
at work before dawn.

I long to sleep a little while,
a little while, a minute, a century,
yet all should know I have not died;
know there's a golden stable on my lips,
that I'm the West Wind's little friend,
the vast shadow of my tears.

Cover me with a veil at dawn,
for it will fling at me fistfuls of ants,
and wet my shoes with hard water
so that its scorpion's pincer may slip.

Because I long to sleep the sleep of apples
to learn a flood of tears cleansing me of earth;
because I long to live with that dark child
who longed to cut his heart on the high sea.