in the slow Mexican air I watched the bull die
and they cut off his ear, and his great head held
no more terror than a rock.
driving back the next day we stopped at the Mission
and watched the golden red and blue flowers pulling
like tigers in the wind.
set this to metric: the bull, and the fort of Christ:
the matador on his knees, the dead bull his baby;
and the priest staring from the window
like a caged bear.
you may argue in the market place and pull at your
doubts with silken strings: I will only tell you
this: I have lived in both their temples,
believing all and nothing - perhaps, now, they will
die in mine.
-Charles Bukowski