'Touro, touro. Ole! Screamed out the Matador.
His flapping cloak, a twirling scarlet wind.
Spinning about, went the Matador, missing the great beast's spears. Tassels of gold sparkling in the dusty breeze.
Great clouds floated from the thunderous creature's feet.
The roaring steer reared, great horns gleaming in the blood drenched sun.
Flicker went the crimson cloak. The monster's hooves pounding out the blood soaked sand.
The arena grows silent. And the bull stomps about the gruesome stage.
The Matador and the bull, stood locked in his opponents glare.
And in their combat stance both knew that hence.
One twas' soon to die.
The crimson cloak flickered in its scarlet stream. The monstrous beast disturbed the parched earth as clouds of rage shot forth from its flared nose.
The Matador, his heart pounding with a fierce beat with the soul of the sky, whipped at brown hair that clung to sun kissed skin and emerald eyes.
Handsome face twisted in murderous thought, as concealed behind his teasing cloak, lay a silver spear poised for his foe's final strike.
'Touro, touro!" Challenged the Matador once again.
With the devil's rage, the bull attacked. Pointed horns, twin gleaming rapiers of ivory, brandished high as a beast of fire and rage. Parched and lusting for the Matador's blood.
The great bull screamed, wriggled and died. The death stroke's instrument sprung out from between its horns. A tri-horned beast now laying slaughtered in the sun.
The Matador heaved and sighed, as he gazed with weary eyes at the gore of his prize.
The crowed it cheered, it screamed, it shout.
Roses of brilliant red, elegant pink and gentile white rained down from the roaring, writhing stands.
Carpeting the blood soaked earth. Soft sweet perfumes cloaking out the reek of death.
The Matador took his bow, to a raging, sea like crowd,
emerald eyes weary from battle. Mournfully he glanced at the rose shrouded bull.
The bull that lay in his life's red oil.
Defeated in a pool of rose petals and blood.