waiting, in this dark place where i am all alone,
muffled roar of the crowds around in my ears,
as they open the doors, I am swallowed by the light of day,
that swallows up in turn the darkness, like a white-hot flame that sears.
the cries of the spectators, that resound
in the arena, dust that chokes, swallowing, pounding
the ground-gravel. Across my path, the matador,
his spangled cloak flashing, pirouettes and swerves
his black mask not hiding his uncertain fear.The part he plays
is that of a gallant doll in this giant masquerade.
the crowd are puppets too;they stamp and cheer and scream
the pitched battle in the arena is to them as a dream,
they do not sense the fever-heat, the imminence of death,
the blood that will soon dye the ground a dusky red. Tonight,
the matador's wife will know no rest.
See him now, his
veronica* leaves them in awe, those who wait,
for my legs to give way, for my steady gait
to halt,for the blood to froth from my mouth in death.
They are not disappointed. Again and again,
he drives the painted pole through my shoulder,
no sympathy, rather weak-kneed fear in his eyes.
Pain twists and flares in my body, breaking a path,
where life will soon cease to tread. The end
is very close now, yet all I do is breathe in dust,
my eyes upon that cheering crowd, that vast assembly of puppets
who dance and laugh and shout and sing, as their paper-puppet faces fade
in my sight, with the bull-ring:a theatre for this painted masquerade.