Death, in a bull's pelt,
full of the holes and horns of its own
undoing, grazes and tramples
a bullfighter's luminous field.
Volcanic roaring, ferocious snorting,
all from a general love for everything born—
Yet the eruptions that flare
kill peaceful ranchers.
Now, ravenous love-starved beast,
you may come graze my heart's tragic grasses,
if you like its bitter aspects.
Like you, I am tormented by loving so much,
and my heart, dressed in a dead man's clothes,
winds over it all.