Torments granted by gras

Gacela of Dark Death


I want to sleep the sleep of apples,

far from the tumult of cemeteries.

I want to sleep the sleep of that child

who longed to cut out his heart at sea.



I don’t wish to hear that the dead lose no blood;

that the shattered mouth still begs for water.

don’t wish to know of torments granted by grass,

nor of the moon with the serpent’s mouth

that goes to work before dawn.



I want to sleep for a while,

a while, a minute, a century;

as long as all know I am not dead;

that in my lips is a golden manger;

that I’m the slight friend of the West Wind;

that I’m the immense shadow of tears.



Cover me, at dawn, with a veil

since she’ll hurl at me fistfuls of ants;

and wet my shoes with harsh water,

so her scorpion’s sting will slide by.



For I want to sleep the sleep of apples

learn a lament that will cleanse me of earth;

for I want to live with that hidden child

who longed to cut out his heart at sea.


Federico García Lorca