Poised with grace, elegance,
the Matador waits
for the charging bull
thru the gates.
Red cape
drapes, a reticent mane,
pain and adrenalin
etched on faces
within the chanting
silent, sardine-packed crowd.
Chest expanded, shoulders squared,
sculptured tummy tucked neatly
the Matador’s anticipation is delayed.
The bull’s not ready
to be a spectacle!
Snorting
in defiance
shaking its’ head from side
to side
but pride,
arrogant twitch
kicks in.
A well-rehearsed strategy
finally
gives pleasure, appetite
and obscurity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem