|
Back to last poem
Back to DFM page
|
Running
The Bulls
An old man on his way, pain in his hip,
but one step follows the other.
Los Torros some children shout, Los
Torros to the slaughter.
Hands for horns, they run rings around
him, finish their game with a stick.
Then bow to the seats reserved for heroes
of past Corrida.
A bell tolls and the people run for
cover, crowd behind the barricades.
Yip, Yip, run straight Los Torros, Los
Torros do not fear slaughter.
Blow and bellow, a boiled eye’s centre,
the stink, then a clatter and trip.
Stunned, a big-calf stands, turns four
ways, and trots on to the arena.
On the sand a young man practices his
moves like a dancer.
Los Torros the chant grows from the
street Los Torros, Los Torros.
|
Home
|