What Hemingway Saw

I don't know if I can
run with the bulls,
the raw fury it entails.

Some days it engulfs me,
gores me,
urges me to run farther, faster.

More often than I
would like to admit

my lungs grow tired
and burn with the exertion.

Am I too old for this?
Will it be me next year,

the one trampled under hooves
laying forgotten in the dust?

Will Pamplona still have me?
Only the opening gates will tell.