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;
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