Death in the Afternoon

Murmurs of the crowd
Wash in waves of distant thunder
Late afternoon in the month of June
The arena; damp with rain and wonder

Bodies in boxes with glasses
Binocular visions of Spanish lasses
Dressed in vermillion and gold
Waiting the tragedy to unfold

Below, there stands the matador
Surveying a slight expanse of sand
Upon their horses, picadors
Lances ready in their hands

Into the barrera comes the bull
Released from inside his iron cage
His appearance; terrible and dreadful
Snorting drool in fearsome rage

Fandas passing magenta and gold
Capote flourishing to tempt and tease
As picadors drive home the lances
Blood on the dusty Spanish breeze

Horns and shoulders, lower now;
Toro focused upon the cloth
The matador with each passing suerte
Brandishing his sword aloft

The flash of red, the glitter of steel
Dash and dance at his command
His steps, a close ballet of sorts;
The waltz of assassins and noblemen

Beneath the burning Spanish sun
The gasping crowd awaits the doom
The final thrust of the sword bears witness
To death in the afternoon