II


The Spilled Blood- P1

I will not see it


Tell the moon to come


for I do not want to see the blood


of Ignacio on the sand


I will not see it


The moon wide open


Horse of still clouds


and the grey bull ring of dreams


with willows in the barreras


I will not see it


Let my memory kindle


Warm the jasmines


of such minute whiteness


I will not see it


The cow of the ancient world


passed har sad tongue


over a snout of blood


spilled on the sand


and the bulls of Guisando


partly death and partly stone


bellowed like two centuries


sated with threading the earth


No


I will not see it


Ignacio goes up the tiers


with all his death on his shoulders


He sought for the dawn


but the dawn was no more


He seeks for his confident profile


and the dream bewilders him


He sought for his beautiful body


and encountered his opened blood


Do not ask me to see it


I do not want to hear it spurt


each time with less strength:


that spurt that illuminates


the tiers of seats, and spills


over the cordury and the leather


of a thirsty multiude


Who shouts that I should come near


Do not ask me to see it


His eyes did not close