Black Bandillera

The flower of a fighting toro is mourning, affixed since birth. The path of a fighting toro is the arena, and later the scales. If condemned by nature to death by the sword, remember-the shrewd cowardice of the fox for the bull is not ceremony. No way out, old chap. One must die properly. One must die excellently to intimidate enemies. After the fight all the same someone by custom will mark a sign with chalk: 'Such and such number of kilograms.' A carcass goes by kilograms. Courage is measured in grams. A carcass goes for meat. Courage goes against the pricks. It’s foolish to be daring, if it’s immaturity of the mind. It’s foolish to be a coward, if you’re surrounded anyway. Why fuss in the arena? You’re a fine little bull. Why pretend to be lame? Your legs are still strong. Hey, you clumsy malingerer... Some were stronger than you- in the end they divide up everyone on hooks in the meat shop. Fling yourself shabbily to meet the hungering band-or else for the crowd’s pleasure the slippery bandilleros will thrust black banderillas, black banderillas like flares of shame, into the nape of your neck. Fool, what’s there for you to win in a miserable game with rogues? ! Those afraid of the fight are not suited for the corrida. Scraggy, streetwalker-cows will lure you from the arena with delicate little bells, well, and then under the knife. Since it all ends anyway, let it end in a sweat. Let the butchers’ ballet dancers huff and puff and dance. Be a real toro! Don’t lower yourself to the level of this crowd made up of nothing but cowardly bulls. Have they given many grams of courage to the world? And the black banderillas, the black banderillas graze the walls, blinds, and door frames, plunged into jackets like trembling skin.