The day was torn and grim
birds yet began to sing
as if they knew
nothing’s eternal
and old gives way to new
that man, one day, will fall
to the nascent murmur of
thirty thousand people chanting
in the fragile dusk of the night.
There is no chosen one,
only the days, torn and grim,
and sometimes hung in the sky
a great white pearl
that makes us cry
to the undulant tumult of
thirty thousand people chanting
in the gloaming dark of the night.
And lost memories
keep coming back
torn and grim
and we dare not look
and we cannot understand
and we thought
we could deal the final blow
estocadar the pain
the unease, the numbness
perhaps drowned in the roar of
thirty thousand people chanting
in the solemn dark of the night.
But the bull in our brain
in one last flick of his horns
impales, bolts and bucks
in the navel through the mouth
rips us apart
leaves us bleeding
blue and white
walled in by the applause
and the deafening thunder of
thirty thousand people chanting
in the grimmer dark of the night.
