Old Woman Census-taker, <br />Death the Trickster, <br />when you're going along, <br />don't you meet my baby. <br /> <br />Sniffing at newborns, <br />smelling for the milk, <br />find salt, find cornmeal, <br />don't find my milk. <br /> <br />Anti-Mother of the world, <br />People-Collector - <br />on the beaches and byways, <br />don't meet that child. <br /> <br />The name he was baptized, <br />that flower he grows with, <br />forget it, Rememberer. <br />Lose it, Death. <br /> <br />Let wind and salt and sand <br />drive you crazy, mix you up <br />so you can't tell <br />East from West, <br /> <br />or mother from child, <br />like fish in the sea. <br />And on the day, at the hour, <br />find only me.<br /><br />Gabriela Mistral<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-death-2/
