Duncan Dhu
Miscellaneous
Afternoon Party
It is the afternoon of August, the sun ends.
The punishing day, with fire burns.
There is no left in the yellow fields a soul,
everyone has gone to the square.
And the sun, the sun burns,
and the sun, the sun burns
Sun and shadow facing each other,
rumor to party: bugles and trumpets,
some pray.
Colors on,
the beast comes out.
The fight begins
Afternoon of bulls,
afternoon August,
afternoon of celebration.
Capes in the wind, slow horse,
needles that stick in loose pairs,
crutch that entertains the last third
while the the square vibrates.
The blood of the bull bathes your sword,
a thousand white handkerchiefs flutter to the sound,
the square sinks into applause and olés,
but You continue to feel that horrible sensation
of blood between your hands,
that horrible sensation.
And you heard him moo, fall into the ring.
Vomiting of blood, a certain thrust.
It is no longer more than a shadow, it moves away
and hundreds of roses and carnations go to meet you,
they go to meet you.
And you continue to feel that horrible sensation
of blood between your hands,
of blood between your hands...

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