I want to sleep the dream of the apples
To withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries
I want to sleep the dream of that child
Who wanted to cut his heart on the high seasI 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 the serpent's mouth that labors before dawnI want to sleep a while, a while, 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 wind
That I am the immense shadow of my tearsCover me at dawn with a veil
Because dawn will throw fists full of ants at me
And wet with hard water my shoes
So that the pincers of the scorpion slide