Gacela of the Dark Death

    I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries¹.

    I want to sleep the sleep of that child

    who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

    I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse² keeps all its blood，

    how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.

    I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for

    nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn

    with its snakelike nose.

    I want to sleep for half a second，

    a second， a minute， a century，

    but I want everyone to know that I am still alive，

    that I have a golden manger inside my lips，

    that I am the little friend of the west wind，

    that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.

    When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me

    because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me，

    and pour a little hard water over my shoes

    so that the scorpion³ claws of the dawn will slip off.

    Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples，

    and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me，

    because I want to live with that shadowy child

    who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.