Lets hope it doesn´t happen,
hope it remains unborn.

A whole chaos within the head,
a raging bull before the red
cape flourished in the circus sand:
a steel point of the Matador,
death to applause of clapping hand,
in your end another rage roars.

Rage wins no final battle,
it enters no gentle night
but dies in the fading light
in the serpent´s throat´s rattle

A shadow of the sun´s lust
bled to death in the lime dust.

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2003
All rights reserved