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 lea 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 lea a lament t o earth;

for i to live dark child

o cut on the high seas.