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 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 a serpent's mouth That labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile, Awhile, 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 wing That I am the intense shadows of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil, Because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me, And wet with hard water my shoes So that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For I want to sleep the dream of the apples, To learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth For I want to live with that dark child Who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
