Letras
The sun beats down on the ring in Cordoba.
Paco looks out, sees the crowd's thirst for blood.
Their cheering conjures old memories
of this very spot where his father had also stood.
The dirt is speckled with the red from the fights before
the work of the picadors left in reminders of torture.
El presidente looks on, his tongue licks away
beer and sweat from above his lips.
Yearning for violence, the mob roars as one
a deafening chorus of their lust for death.
Paco looks at Ratón, its gait contorted.
Six banderillas dangle from its shoulders.
The black coat matted crimson,
horns hanging heavy, seemingly near to the end.
The fluttering cape,
a stab at the back,
Paco olés the passes,
dancing with elegance.
Hubris: Man over beast.
When his foot slips away and he falls to the ground.
Digging its hooves deep in the soil
Ratón snorts in rage, begins to attack.
Paco crawls to his knees,
resigned to his fate
in the bull's furious eyes.
Ratón charges with lowered head.
The plaza, in horror,
horns gore him straight through his chest.