An old man is fighting an invisible bull
Down on the deserted beach,
Making passes with his invisible cape,
Pointing his invisible sword
Like a wizard’s wand.
Once again,his old body moves
Like a young man’s,
And he hears the acclamation
Of the crowd
Above the sound of the sea.
The bulls are running in his blood;
Wherever he goes, he can never escape them.
Does one have to be ironic and detached,
Observing life with a cynical smirk,
Ready always to say “I told you so”
Or “I never really cared that much anyway”?
So cautious and apprehensive,
Afraid to live, afraid to die…
From my seat in a Seville cafe,
I watch the barman, so bored and grumpy,
Polishing glasses ,one after another,
With the stuffed bulls’ heads behind him on the wall.,
Each with a plaque announcing its name,
The weight and breed,
And the day of its death,
And the matador who slew him.
Cry the fear and poison out of your blood,
Weep over the bones of your parents and brothers,
They are gone, gone, gone!
And yours is the fate of every soul that ever lived,
Born into suffering, loss and dismay,
With only dreams to ward off suicide.
In the bullring the matador,
Straight and tensed to the bone,
Draws the wounded bull in ever closer,
Its dark blood sweating onto the sand;
Can fate truly be so commanded?
Can skill and courage
Redeem the usual folly and waste?
No bull’s horns ever hurt a man
As much as the attacks and lies
Of venal lovers and false allies.
The sun aims its fine bright sword
Directly through the heart.
Evening falls over the deserted beach.
The old man stands quiet, exhausted,
The invisible bull dead at his feet.
He turns and trudges back across the sand,
With his sword and his cape.
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