The arena is waiting.
The crowd anticipating.
Footprints, hoofprints,
left in the sand,
the sand that is thirsty,
waiting for fresh blood.
There it comes, slowly.
the savage beast,
a symbol of strength,
uncontrolled rage.
Its head bent down,
its horns forward,
ready to attack.
Its nostrils wide open,
fuming, steaming.
The elegant torero,
such a sight to see,
waiting with cloth and spear,
every move so graceful.
Brutal force against swiftness and intelligence,
an uneven battle.
The outcome always the same,
except when the horns find the tormentor
and pierce his beautiful costume,
staining it with human blood.
The horns are relentless, ruthless, cruel.
seeking vengeance, seeking death
for all those who's noble blood was shed.
Every bull wants to live, it wants to survive,
and it has learned to hate every human
who doesn't show respect
but kills for entertainment,
kills for bloodthirsty crowds.
It will fight back to escape its fate.
To torture and kill such beauty,
a creature so fierce and strong,
is disgusting, despicable and morally wrong.
Our strength should be to let it live.
Then maybe one day it will forgive.