The matador’s sword found the right
spot in the bull’s muscular neck. It
collapsed forelegs first. A cascade of
blood from its nostrils and mouth.
Yet still not dead when a flunky bent
down and cut its left ear off and held it
aloft in triumph. The public applauded
and waved white handkerchiefs as a sign
of approval. The dead bull was dragged
out by two harnessed and blindfolded
horses. A trail of blood on sawdust.
This innocent, animal, born and reared
for one purpose alone, to be killed in a
bullring by a matador. To this grizzly
spectacle of human bloodlust I had been
an eager spectator.