Gacela of the Dark Death

    I  to sleep the apples,

    to umult of cemetries.

    I  to sleep t child

    o cut  on the high seas.

    I dont  to  t lose their blood,

    t trid mouter.

    I dont  to learn of tortures of the grass,

    nor of ts mouth

    t labors before dawn.

    I  to sleep awhile,

    aury;

    but all must kno I  died;

    t table of gold in my lips;

    t I am t wing;

    t I am tense sears.

    Cover me at dah a veil,

    because dafuls of ants at me,

    and  er my shoes

    so t the scorpion slide.

    For I  to sleep the apples,

    to learn a lament t o earth;

    for I  to live  dark child

    o cut  on the high seas.