Black Bandillera

By the rules of the corrida, in place of the usual pink, as a sign of contempt, black banderillas are thrust into a cowardly bull.

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.

1967
Seville--Moscow
Translated by Albert C. Todd