Thirty one degrees in la calle,
Paseo de Cristobal Colón.
Heat fuels the sense of expectancy,
The afternoon has come.
The whole world is heading in one direction,
To see. To be. To be seen.
Today they stroll with a purpose,
Working man and bourgeoisie.
Sol o Sombre? Alto o abajo?
Keep the glare out of your eyes.
Here, the spectacular awaits us,
History in reprise.
Out of the tunnel and into the Plaza,
Tradition to cherish and hold.
A vision of this fair country,
In shades of claret and gold.
It's time: Horns blow, the show begins,
Every sight and every sound.
A microcosm of pain and pleasure,
Contained within the round.
Six bulls unleashed; noble beasts,
Beautiful. Powerful. Pure.
Six matadors and their muletas,
Red cloaks, daggers and swords.
Shadows stretch to touching distance.
Face to face and eye to eye.
Sequins and tassels will draw attention,
But fear they cannot hide.
Instinct guiding every act,
Predator, pray; Role reversal.
Events may twist and turn before us,
The results are always mortal.
The blade is drawn, fate is set,
The result given before it begins.
Noble beast versus the people's coward,
In a game it can never win.
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