Читать книгу Essential Bukowski: Poetry - Чарльз Буковски, Abel Debritto - Страница 20

in the slow Mexican air I watched the bull die

and they cut off his ear, and his great head held

no more terror than a rock.

driving back the next day we stopped at the Mission

and watched the golden red and blue flowers pulling

like tigers in the wind.

set this to metric: the bull, and the fort of Christ:

the matador on his knees, the dead bull his baby;

and the priest staring from the window

like a caged bear.

you may argue in the marketplace and pull at your

doubts with silken strings: I will only tell you

this: I have lived in both their temples,

believing all and nothing—perhaps, now, they will

die in mine.